The Gravedigger
by SeanSepulveda
Summary: 3 weeks post season 4 of the Dexter universe. Rating T - M. Occasional cursing. Chapter 19! It's good to write again! I hope you enjoy. And as always, I apologize for the ridiculously long wait!
1. Chapter 01

This is a work of fiction. All characters found herein are property of author Jeff Lindsay.

SPOILER ALERT! Story contains crucial information regarding season 4's finale. Read at your own risk.

The story takes place 3 weeks after the events of Season 4.

* * *

Nature; what an interesting beast.

It has a funny way of remaining the same. Whatever form it takes, it neither feels or emotes. It is absolutely void of conscience and self-serves the ungodly shit out of itself. For once, I'd like to see something members of my species claim to be _alive _(not unlike a lizard) commit an act of selflessness not caused by some freak, cosmic happenstance that couldn't be explained away by elementary logic. Still there it is, in the water we drink, the air we breathe, the soil we toil and the beds we fuck on. Undying as the will of a people repressed – nature belongs to no one, but it certainly involves its selfish ass in everything, doesn't it?

Like oranges – especially oranges. In a word: Zest. To be precise, the aroma of zest. To be specific, the first upward cut with a 12-inch, diamond-coated titanium serrated blade into a bulbous and freshly picked-from-the-produce-pile orange rind. It spritz like life into the moment. Vibrant, aromatic and without aim; it's a bona fide _slice of life_. And to think, this is just the beginning! Suddenly, I'm willfully raped by an onslaught of nasal orgasms from broken and blended coffee beans to the soft crackle of bacon fat on a simmering sauté pan. "Don't forget the eggs, Dex." Harry was right about so many things. With the first precision strike of each egg's meager shell, I felt powerful. Invigorated even, albeit to a small extent, by the modest controlled destruction in my hands and its byproduct dripping helplessly between my fingers. As long as the murder is justified; Harry taught me that, too. Therefore, in the disfigurement of nature, I will find nourishment. Enriched and ready to begin the day anew. I am in good, natural company. Not a worry in the world. A veritable cocoon of refreshment in the infinite parched landscape of Dismal Desert Dexter. I do love breakfast.

What I do NOT love is breaking ritual. Unfortunately, phones don't answer themselves, and after all, normal people answer their phones when they ring, don't they?

"Hello?" I asked. I even threw a trace of fatigue in there. I looked at my watch. 10:30am? Yeah, they'd buy it. "That you, Debs?" Harry would be proud.

"Of course it's me, you fucking idiot. Were you sleeping? I've been trying to get a hold of you all morning!" My affable foster sister, Deborah. Tactful as the clergy on Sunday. "Well?"

I've known Debs my whole life. Well, most of it. I like to think I've adjusted myself enough to appease her, specifically, in any conversation. It's a tired fact that I don't play well with others. I have no sense of empathy and for that, conversation with other people can be disquieting and ultimately fruitless. Frustration is really the only human emotion I can relate to on a regular basis. Ironically, I aim to avoid it whenever possible. So it comes as no surprise that I couldn't conjure the emotional response Debs was looking for with her clever "well?" breakfast-curtailing curve ball.

I stammered briefly as my mental rolodex finally landed on an appropriate reply. "I'm sorry. Everything's just been difficult these past couple weeks. Really, really difficult." It wasn't standing ovation quality, but an applause certainly would not go unnoticed.

"No shit, Dex. It's been hard on everyone. What say you we grab lunch in thirty? I'm thinkin' Cuban."

"Can't. I'm having breakfast."

"At 11:30? Come on, Dex. I get that you don't want to go out, but it's me. Your sister. Sorry bro, you don't have a fuckin' choice. Let me take care of you." In all the social anarchy following Rita's death, I completely forgot about day-light savings! 10:30am was a stretch, but 11:30am?

"Sure. Sounds good. Relampago?"

"No. Pizza Hut. Of course, silly." She laughed a bit, "I better see you then."

"You will." After I hung up the phone, I was confounded by irrationality. A perfectly good breakfast gone to waste. I've never skipped my early morning nutriments, and I had absolutely no way of knowing how this would effect me the rest of the day. I suppose I could save it – keep it fresh in the refrigerator. But how? If only I had some saran wrap...


	2. Chapter 02

It's not too long a drive from my old apartment to Relampago. Maybe fifteen minutes, give or take five depending on the traffic. Especially if you find yourself between 103rd and 119th street off the 95 freeway. But it's only noon. Still, can't blame a monster for being too careful. So I'll take the side streets. The NW 7th Avenue parallel is near perfect at this time so I shouldn't be late, assuming I didn't want to upset Debs. I like her more when she's happy. Maybe I _will _take the freeway.

"You're late." Debs had a way with words I could only envy.

"Traffic." Would you believe it? Traffic on the 95 between 103rd and 119th just before noon. I'm usually pretty good about listening to my instincts. Figures. This is what I get for putting others first. "Sorry. Did you already order?"

Even through her pitch-black Miami sunglasses, I could feel her disappointment. Her eyes chiseling clean, almost surgically, through the back of my head and intimidating the customers behind me. "Did I order? How fucked up are you?" I'll admit, my sister asks some genuinely poignant questions. Crass, but poignant. How to respond? I imagine I could pretend that Rita's death was debilitating to me as it was to the kids. It would temporarily explain a lot of my natural behavior (the nights alone, detached disposition, night-time be-headings...) as circumstantially relevant. But that wouldn't be Dearly Deluded Dexter, and when given the opportunity for cathartic release – to be truly honest with someone else – I'll take it gladly.

"Pretty fucked up." I replied. Debs removed her sunglasses.

I knew where this conversation was headed the minute I finished NOT eating breakfast twenty-four minutes ago. It's been three weeks since Rita's death. She was my wife and the mother of my two adopted children, Cody and Astor. On the outside, we had a loving, albeit problematic and often times frustrating, but _normal _relationship. Normal. Normalcy. She was everything that made me _normal _to the rest of the world. She was the touchstone of my humanity while my Dark Passenger gleefully sauntered through his bloody midnight ambitions. For all intents and purposes, she was the cloak to my dagger. If frustration is the emotion with which I excel, then grief is my anti-thesis. Rita's death, while painful in its own strange and alien ways, leveed me to no higher spiritual awakening. I am, as I was and will always be, Dexter the Disturbed. However, there is a part of me that misses that smile. But it's just a smile, isn't it? Everyone's got one. Even me.

"That's the understatement of the fucking year. Dex. You haven't said more than two words to me in almost a month. How fucked up are you?" Suddenly, mixed in all her Deborah bravado, her involuntarily ambiguous query became clear. She was searching. Trying to connect with a humanity she saw in me. Looks like you're up, Dex.

"I find it hard to talk about." The words came out slowly and haphazard. My sister stared at me blankly. I think she expected more. Alright then. "I loved..." Deborah's stone gaze suddenly shifted behind me. I was still in mid-sentence, but her random attention set me into curiosity. "What?"

"The fuck?" Deborah finished. She slowly arose from her chair and drifted almost drunkenly toward the TV above the bar; the epicenter of her newfound interest. I didn't follow, so I had only my keen predatory eyes to rely on as I watched the TV screen from my seat. At first, it seemed like nothing of interest. A white man, mid-thirties with perfect hair sitting behind a large desk talking to the camera about whatever-the-fuck. The news, I guess. Maybe something new? But what? Deborah wasn't the type to be whisked away by nonchalance or fits of fancy. She was otherwise compelled by passion. Whatever the anchor was breaking, it caught my sister's very sagacious and particular attention. There was no sound, and I could have followed the poorly transcribed live subtitles, but I don't speak bullshit. So I waited. Like Deb seemed to be doing. But for what?

"Debs?" I asked. She merely thrust her right hand behind to shush me. This was important. As I continued to watch the screen, the image of the mid-thirties male was replaced by yellow caution tape, reporters, forensic analysts, and a dismembered female body cut into equal length portions. Nothing was shown, of course, but it was definitely inferred. And it certainly didn't help matters much that they frequently showed comparison footage of the old Ice Truck killings. Before my trained, unflinching eyes, my dear sister became Darkly Derailed Deborah.


	3. Chapter 03

The universe can play such cruel games on its fleshy pawns. But today, of all days? I was prepared for talking, at length, about my _feelings_. It takes a sizable amount of mental preparation to act normal for the people who think they know me best. I was to be consoled, but moreover, I was _ready_ to be consoled. Now, thanks to the well-to-do and immaculately groomed asshole on the television, my sister's scars have torn and begun to bleed again. How now do I prepare for Deborah when she finally returns from the bathroom? Being consoled requires very little responsibility. From what I understand, you just sit there while they talk. Nod your head a couple times. Confess to being stupid and cap it off with an uncomfortably long hug. But now it was Deborah who needed consoling.

"Are you ready to order?" What a bouncy blond waitress. On the outside, it seemed like she enjoyed her job a little too much.

"Sorry. I'm kind of waiting for my sister." Apparently I had to acknowledge further that I wouldn't order without Deborah.

"So you just wanna wait 'til she gets back, then?" Such a bouncy blond waitress; I couldn't be frustrated with her. I nodded my head and she left with a sour expression. Fuck! I'm in way over my head, and to top it all off, I'm malnourished. Lunch, it appeared, would be just as close, yet equally intangible as my earlier endeavor. The universe does enjoy its little games.

The bouncy blond waitress returned three more times before Deborah finally emerged from the bathroom. I could tell she was wearing less mascara than before.

"My, um. My pager went off while I was in the bathroom. It was Angel. I guess he wants to talk to me about something. Sorry, Dex. Rain check?"

"I'll go with you." I may not feel compassion whether I receive or offer it, but I understand when the subtext calls for it. Furthermore, I can't think of anyone who deserves my best efforts more than Deborah. I would do anything for her. Even starve.

"You're on leave. I'm okay by myself, you idiot. We'll have lunch tomorrow or something." Deborah was desperate for strength. I could sense the minor trembles in her voice as it echoed physically down through to her hands. Minor trembles all over, even. Anxiety personified.

"I think it's time for me take care of you, little sis." Deborah smiled for the faintest of moments.

"How do you always know what's best for me?"

It was a quiet drive to the station. It had to be. She had nothing to say and I, for the life of me, had no idea _what _to say. Peace and quiet. I usually consider them my friends, but something about this specific drive constantly nagged at my brain. Was this anxiety? I shrugged the encroaching thought and pulled into my parking spot at the station.

DING! The elevator doors opened to a barrage of scurrying officers. The Miami Metro Homicide Division's nest sent into a tizzy by the recent copy-cat killer. Deborah was the first out and effortlessly navigated her way through the human debris.

"Morgan!" Angel stood at the doorway to the Lieutenant's office. He waved briefly before Deborah noticed his invitation. After a quick nod and a vaguely discernible 'thank you' my way, she followed him into the office, the door closed behind her and the blinds snapped shut. No question what the topic of discussion was in there.

"Hey!" The muffled Vince Masuka, my lab-buddy and resident pervert, banged feverishly on the window from inside our lab in an attempt to garner my attention. I took the bait. Suddenly, myself and Vince were alone in our lab, detached from the confusion outside. "You won't believe this." Vince took a quick breath, "hey. How are you doing, by the way?" A large part of me knew that I should still be exhibiting signs of grief. After all, I was still on leave. Might as well play the part.

"I've been better. What's up?" At this point, I didn't care if Vince believed me or not. It's been a challenging morning.

"Look." Vince backed away from the micro-scope with the jubilation of a bouncy blond waitress. "What does that look like to you?" I pressed my eyes firmly against the eyepiece and adjusted the objective lenses until the tissue sample made sense. With a slight retuning of the coarse and fine focuses, I began to understand what all the commotion was about.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Meet our whore-bitch victim. If we found this guy, we'd have to turf him to robbery." Vince laughed to himself. He was right. The tissue sample of the victim gave no clear indication of recent live activity.

"The tissue's dead." No shit, Dexter, I thought to myself. "I mean, she's been dead. For weeks. Maybe more, it seems like." I rose from the eyepiece to Vince with a pretentious smile slapped across his face. In his hands, he held a recent fax. "What's that?"

Vince took a shallow breath, "our victim. It's her coroner's report. O.D'ed a month ago on heroin."

"She was exhumed?" My brain was besieged by confusion.

"Stolen. Our prostitute Ms. Jenny Andover also has a death certificate. She was buried at Vista Memorial Gardens. Right here in sunny Miami. So, I made a quick call. Guess who's not there anymore." Vince took an eerie pride in his work. Now if only he'd change hobbies. I'm sure I could work with his enthusiasm; his _zest_.


	4. Chapter 04

I've overstayed my welcome. Not only was there no blood to analyze and no real homicide to speak of, but I was on leave. I was in mourning. "I'm sorry, Vince. I'd like to share in your excitement."

Vince was quick to cut me off. "No. No, no, no, no. It's my fault. I should have been more considerate. But you could totally see why all of this would be exciting for me."

I nodded in agreement. "Have you told anyone about this?"

"Nope. You're the first!" He replied.

"Thanks, Vince." I gestured my leave quickly and headed for the door.

"Whoa, wait!" Vince, goddammit, what? "What about Deb?"

Perhaps I misunderstood. "She's in the office with Angel."

"And LaGuerta and the Captain. I think Quinn might be in there, too. This must be hard on her. I just figured – I mean, I know you're going through a lot with the whole, you know, thing." Vince may have all the social sensitivity of an A.M. jack-hammer, but he had a point. I guess even Vince has his brushes with humanity. "Misery loves company." He laughed nervously to himself. I spoke too soon. I deductively flashed him a grimace of disapproval and took my leave.

I was headed to LaGuerta's office anyway. I may be heartless, but Debs was certainly on my mental radar. If I was going to see my little sister smile again, I'd have to lend her some support. _Anything_. I knocked on the Lieutenant's door a moment before entering. The room had all the charm of a crystal meth intervention. My dear, emotionally dilapidated sister buried her face in her hands on the sofa with Angel and Quinn acting as her immediate support. Captain Matthews sat docile in LaGuerta's chair while LaGuerta herself found comfort leaning against her desk. Each a character I'd trust with my sister under the circumstances, save for one; Detective Joey Quinn. My sister's partner. It seems like ever since the late Sergeant Doakes was found conveniently murdered (victim of suicide, according to the file) under the erroneous guise of the Bay Harbor Butcher, Quinn has become increasingly aware of my invariable inconsistencies. If my mask was slipping, no one else was noticing, except for Detective prick Joey Quinn.

"Dexter!" LaGuerta exclaimed. The entire room re-focused their attention on me, specifically Deborah, who's eyes seemed alight by my intrusion. I didn't observe the same reception from the others. Perhaps this would change their minds.

"Sorry. Hi. Just thought I'd share some good news with you – my sister. With my sister." Well done, Dex. Spoken like a well-rehearsed professional adult. LaGuerta looked at me squarely, as if I had no business breathing the same air as the rest of them. "It's about the murder. Or, non-murder." I shook my own head of its uncharacteristic confusion. "There was no murder. The body was exhumed from Memorial Gardens in Miami. So." And that was it. That's all the _good_ news I had to offer my sister. It all sounded so much better in my head. LaGuerta and Angel looked at me with a hybrid of confusion and horror. I've seen this expression so many times before. Briefly, of course, as each of my Dark Passenger's unsuspecting victims came to from their chemical slumber.

"Dexter, what are you doing here? I sent you on leave." LaGuerta insisted after an abrupt silence.

"Dex!" Angel managed his way out of his role of primary support for Deborah, and began making his way toward me. "I got this, babe." He was speaking, of course, to Lieutenant Maria LaGuerta. I was recently the sole witness to their mock matrimony in order to save their respective career handles. Though, now they're as legally bound through the mock service as the midnight monster is to my unforgiving table: Forever. The only common denominator is me; the witness. Suddenly, Angel had me in his friendly grasp, gently gesturing me back through the door and onto the floor outside the office. "I mean, Lieutenant. I got this, _Lieutenant_." Angel smiled back at Maria in a way that would make Jesus sick. "Dex." He called me, after closing the office door behind him, "let's grab a drink, buddy."

"But my sister." I insisted.

"She's being looked after. Trust me. I think we're all more worried about you right now. Alright jefe? Drinks are on me. Vamos!" As Angel and I waited for our elevator, the door to LaGuerta's office opened and shut behind us.

"Hey!" Angel and I turned. Quinn, apparently, had decided to join us for some afternoon drinks. "Hold the elevator!" Quinn made it in just before the doors closed. "Never gets old, fellas. Where we going?"

Angel smiled. "Nowhere."

And there, in the reflection of the stainless steel doors of this modern tomb, I not only felt his unearthly glare like so many times before, but witnessed it with my own eyes. My nerves tickled underneath my skin and random muscles flared in frenzy. If only anxiety felt _this_ good. I need to conceal my smile. I'm sure, with the inhuman amount of attention he's paying, Quinn would most certainly notice. I see you now, Quinn. I have only now to wonder what tricks you have planned. Very well. As they say at the onset of any battle of wits, 'may the best man win.'


	5. Chapter 05

'Nowhere.'

My wise and foreboding friend, Angel Batista. Nowhere is indeed the perfect place for so many of my after school activities. So many of my bloody secrets are lost in the fathomless and forgotten cavities of Nowhere. I should have been excited, but my definition of 'nowhere' clearly differs wildly from that of Angel's. After all, I don't drink. Yet, that's precisely where this astute monster of caution inadvertently found himself. I may not familiarize myself too distinctly with the goings on of normal human life styles (which typically include habitual debauchery), but I can say with a reasonable amount of confidence, that this shit-hole was the quintessential dive; _definitively_.

Angel spread his arms wide in gesture to the unattractive female bartender, "mi amor. Mi amor. Te amo, mi amor!"

"And you, Batista." The bartender and Angel embraced from over the bar. Unsuccessfully, I might add. It would appear the bartender was a few shoe-sizes too small to play the role of a convincing adult. But her merciless crows feet and ravaged, unkempt hair picked up the slack where others might argue, 'she's too young.' I'm sure it flatters her, but there's nothing about _her_ that makes _me_ thirsty for a beer.

Angel turned his attention to Quinn and I, "sit, please."

"What'll it be this time, _Sergeant_ Batista?" The bartender was smitten by Angel's unctuous personality. What's worse, she wanted him to know it.

"Three usuals, and one unusual for my man Dex, here. Quinn, you want anything?" Angel laughed long enough to provoke Quinn into checking his wallet, "I'm just fuckin' with you, man. I got this round."

No choice now, is there? I went with the tumultuous flow of friendship and I washed up somewhere along the filthy banks of Humanity only to find myself starving for protein. I rationalized skipping breakfast. I sacrificed lunch for my sister. No more. "Excuse me?"

The bartender turned her head while she prepared my unusual tonic, "what can I get you, sweetheart?"

"Do you have a bar menu?"

The bartender laughed uncontrollably for a short moment. "Sorry, dear." And she placed the drink in front of me, followed by our beers. Such is the nature of life. Oh, well. I'm sure I'm better off.

"What's wrong? Empty stomach?" Quinn finally opened his mouth.

I nodded. "Missed breakfast." What a dreadfully average thing to do.

"In my house, we call that a cheap date." Quinn smiled at me. If a picture was worth a thousand words, this one smile could fill a library.

"Liquid diets. Nothing else like it. Cheers boys!" Angel struck his glass against mine and Quinn's. "To Dex!"

The only thing greasier than Angel's hair was his mouth. He wasn't capable of keeping anything to himself. Thoughts and ideas just slipped right off his tongue. His outpour of emotions and constant playful narrative was designed to _help _me, not bore me. But by my fourth or fifth usual and my second unusual, certain caveats and lines were beginning to blur. Perception dwindled with the passing minutes and my peripheral was a distant memory. I was getting drunk. I looked at my watch, 2:15PM. Given the circumstances, yeah. I think they'd buy it. But I didn't stop there. I left caution and, worst of all, judgment out to frolic the barren landscape of Desert Dexter. In so doing, I lacked the intuitive situational awareness that's kept me breathing in the most dangerous of times. I even vaguely remember Angel's pager going off at some point. Why not Quinn's? I'm the only one who's authorized to leave my pager at home under consent of lieutenant LaGuerta. I started to recollect all the little details I took for granted mere moments ago. After Angel received his page, he consulted with Quinn and they had a mutual understanding, which seemed only to benefit Quinn. "Go with the flow, Dexter. Once you're knee deep, it's impossible to be dry." Harry's unique wisdom was often broken and non sequitur, but revealed itself naturally and potently when absolutely necessary. He was right, but I was eyeballs deep. With only questions, I deemed it appropriate to leave life to chance. For now. Just Quinn and myself. And I was at a _great_ disadvantage.

I pounded my last beer and pushed it away, "well, that should do it."

"Nonsense!" Quinn remarked. "Look, buddy. You're on leave for an undisclosed amount of time. You had some heavy shit happen to you and, let's be honest, you don't have anywhere else to be. Angel left me in charge, so that's what I'm gonna do."

"In charge of what?" I had to ask.

"Taking care of ya. I don't know about you, but I'm on the clock. Word comes down from on high says my job is to drink, I drink. No questions asked." Quinn was rehearsed and charismatic. I found myself beginning to respect the man, if only for his persistence.

"So." He started, "dearly drunk Dexter, how ya holdin' up?" Somewhere beneath the discombobulating haze of inebriation, I could still feel his question lacking substance. Apparently my usual exacting physical prowess had suffered some. I was fumbling with my hands. Quinn laughed. "You don't drink much, do you? Must be a super-bitch on an empty stomach, too. Can't say I've seen you like this before. So out of control of yourself. To be honest, it's a little refreshing. Almost believed you were dead." All the while, Quinn wore a permanent smirk.


	6. Chapter 06

Quinn tapped his knuckles on the bar twice, "another round, babe."

I was thrust into an unusual world brimming with abstract and surreal observations. Since I've never imbibed alcohol to such an extent, I had only metaphors to cling to. In this case, I was in a fog. A thick, dense and disorienting fog. By now, conversation was a moot endeavor. To follow another person's deranged logic was challenging enough without my own thoughts impeding the process. I literally time traveled from one irrelevant moment to the next with a zero percent chance of roll-over information. If a topic changed, I was in the dark. I'd disappear and reappear mid-sentence. In summation, I wasn't in the most advantageous of positions. Therefore, with no real general understanding of the circumstances I found myself under, I decided it best to _remain silent_. In point of fact, many misdemeanor transgressors would benefit from this advice.

"I understand, you know." Quinn began, as if I had followed him the entire way. "What it means to lose someone, I mean. I understand." Of course, he was talking about Christine Hill. Daughter of the recently deceased national psychopath, Arthur Mitchell. What's more important, however, is the angle Quinn chose; the personal angle. He's trying to connect with me. But why?

"You and I, we haven't really had a chance to meet. Not really. So I get that some things you wanna keep pretty close to the chest." Quinn was dead-on so far. At least, that's what I understood. Under the level of inebriation I was experiencing, minute details were randomly extracted by my consciousness while the rest remained unharvested. Symbolically speaking, I was attempting to complete a thousand piece puzzle of puffy white clouds. Sure, I could deduce that clouds were generally white and puffy, but the details which lead to forming the bigger picture were wholly absent. "So allow me to share something with you that I believe might make things easier." I had no way of knowing where this line of logic might be leading. It's possible I didn't even care at the time.

"Oh yeah?" And that's all I could muster. Simple. Direct language. I was risking nothing by saying so.

"Welcome to the conversation. You remember Christine Hill, don't you?" He looked at me for a reaction. I offered him not even a motion to sneeze. "I'm sure you do. Wasn't that long ago. I cared for her more than most people in this precinct would like to admit. It might not have been love, but I tell you, after she committed suicide, I fuckin' felt it. I'd be lying if I didn't wonder how much harder it might be if she and I were married, you know? Hell, I might consider offing myself, too." All I remember was him staring at me. "You have anything to add, Dex?" Not a thing. Not until I could be absolutely sure of anything; that's what Harry used to say. "Yeah, that's what I figured." My plan was back-firing, but I _couldn't_ open my mouth; not while I was drunk. "So tell me what kind of man could."

"Could what?" Maybe I was shooting myself in the foot, but I hate open-ended comments.

"What kind of man could find his _own_ infant child in a pool of blood from his _own_ murdered wife and feel abso-fucking-lutely nothing?" His master plan revealed. In all these years, I've neglected my role as the feeling 'human' and Quinn, of all people, took a peek while I broke for intermission. My negligence had come back to punish Daring undaunted Dexter. "For that matter," he continued, "what kind of brother completely ignores his clearly fucked-in-the-head sister?" The tone of his voice escalated dramatically in proportion to the blood flow in his veins. "She was abducted! Her life threatened! Do you understand?!" The bartender stayed at the ready with no real call to arms. "She could be dead right now, and you don't have a fuckin' thing to say about it." All parts of me yearned to remark – to rationalize his distortion of the facts. I _felt_, maybe not to his supreme standards. Still, I said nothing. "Still have another beer to polish off, cowboy." He said, in a bright yellow field of confidence. In the spirit of his request and as an innocent friend, I drank my beer.

But it was subtext that I suddenly remembered to rely on. My dearly beloved subtext. She flew down from heaven and whispered sweet nothings into my ear like the refreshing surge of energy you 're enveloped in after an overdue kill – like the crack of a monster's sternum under my blade's heavy scrutiny. And just what did lady subtext tell me? I was well within my logical human rights to use physical aggression. Quinn crossed emotional boundaries and pervaded my privacy. And there it was. My hand was already balled into a fist, all I needed was the rationality to throw it. In court, worse allegations were pardoned by crime of passion verdicts. Beyond that, it would just feel good to punch the arrogant fucker. So be it. Armed with a fist and the logic to use it, I sent it flying into Quinn's perversely suspecting face. With time a mystery, I had no way of knowing how long Quinn spent on the ground before finally rising, slack-jawed and bloodied. He shared a few parting words with the bartender before addressing me, "you're mine now, bitch." And like a cold gust of wind through a kitchen window, he was gone.

What else had I to lose but presence of space and mind? With nothing remotely illuminating or even locationally relevant to analyze within _any_ degree of accuracy, I had only the weight of my eye-lids to measure. By my calculations, they were getting heavier by the heart-beat. Indeed. What else had I to lose? After a fleeting concern about my ride home, I ignored the midget bartender's gibberish warnings and calmly passed out.


	7. Chapter 07

What the fuck did I do?

When I awoke, I felt the pounding of my head vibrating through a pillow I had wrapped and held tightly around my skull. There was no sunlight. Was it late? How much time had passed? ---

"Who the fuck cares? My head is _killing_ me!" I was only 15 at the time, but Harry knew how I felt about bullies punching me in the face. I never did play well with others.

"Son," Harry began, "you can't just pick a fight with everyone who doesn't understand you."

"He fuckin' started it!"

"Calm down, son. A strong man doesn't lose his temper. He also doesn't place blame." Harry took a long, Zen-like breath, "Jesus Christ, Dex. You have to think _before_ you act. You'll never evolve until you understand that." (How right he was.)

"So that's it?" Harry waited for further information. Naturally, I obliged him with as much honesty as I could muster, "that's all I have to do to kill him? Think before I act?" Harry looked at me, keeping his jaw from dropping. His head hung low and shook from side to side for a moment before addressing me again.

"You don't understand, Dexter. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You can't just kill Daniel."

"Taniel." I corrected him.

"Whatever his name is. You can't kill your neighbor's son, Dexter. I don't care how many times he punches you in the face."

"Why?" His reasons were profoundly bizarre to me.

"For one, he's too close to you. It wouldn't take the police long to connect the dots. Don't get caught, Dex. _Think_ before you act. That has to be on your mind at all times, son." ---

At all times? I guess I had to find another way to deal with Quinn.

During the most excruciating of times, I managed to find comfort in the teachings of Harry. But now I was awake, pulled from my bastion of hibernation and propelled head long into a brick wall. Or so it seemed. I made a desperate dash toward the bathroom, found the ibuprofen and choked down several cap-fulls before drowning my parched mouth in the faucet. When my head managed to lift and maintain at mirror's height and my eyes could center, I looked into my face – my horrible and disfigured face. As I stared, my mind wondered, through the dizzying pulsations of my throbbing brain, how this could possibly happen to me: Duly Disciplined Dexter? To my surprise, I had no answers. In fact, I couldn't remember a single damn thing.

What the fuck _did_ I do?

I awoke, a second time, more refreshed and clear headed than the last. Thank god for ibuprofen. And while I felt a deep, unwavering concern for my actions during the black out earlier that day, I couldn't help but become elated by the fact I was finally alone. The revelation sent chills through my body. My stomach even quivered a few times before returning still with anticipation. But was I free? Sure I was. Even if Quinn tried to turn me in, he'd most likely say I was drunk. All circumstantial; I'm the grieving husband with the murdered wife. All he did was give me a free swing.

Free. I was finally alone and free.

I sprung out of bed and hurried toward the nearest window. It was a full moon, too! I could even detect a hint of red in its shading. 'Tonight is the night," I thought to myself, then quickly accessed my laptop and opened the files detailing the curiously forgotten mishaps of one, Peter Olshansky. Who, on the eve of his second anniversary in 1984, drugged his wife and suffocated her in their hotel room. What's worse, she was pregnant. After a little digging, I discovered he was having an affair with another woman. Everyone has justification. He walked for lack of evidence. Bad for the victims' families; lucky for me. I discovered Olshansky, my new gem, when his son made local news for inciting a riot at a local high school two weeks ago. The poor boy was obviously influenced by the sins of the father, or so the media reported. It was only a matter of time before Peter's lies resurfaced, exposing his scars to the world. When I watched the broadcast of Peter's alleged misdoings, I fell in love; or my perception of it, anyway. My reptile instincts shuttered with excitement. Harry's Code mandates the must for concrete evidence. But sometimes, when you look into the eyes of another monster and you see yourself, their motives and thoughts suddenly become vivid. Still, like a diligent and ardent follower of the Code, I gathered my irrefutable evidence. Harry _would_ be proud.

My phone shocked me from my fixation with its vibration. I struggled removing the phone from the pocket of my jeans and missed the call in the process. The face plate read, "Deborah: 12 Missed Calls." I looked at my watch, 8:33pm? Yeah, I have time. I could probably explain myself to her over a thick, juicy porterhouse. My mouth began watering. Suffice it to say, I returned Deborah's call. After a few pulses, Deborah picked up.

"Dex?" She said softly.

I hate to hear my sister in pain. "Debs, are you okay?"

"I'm better." She paused for a moment, "listen Dex, we need to talk." I held my breath, looked at the photo of Peter Olshansky on my computer screen and lost myself in his eyes.

"I'm on my way." I released the air and hung up the phone. Peter Olshansky; his scars were luminescent in the moon's crimson light. It was clear he was a wounded animal. It was also clear I was a _very_ hungry monster.


	8. Chapter 08

I stood apprehensive before the stainless steel doors of the station's elevator as it ascended to Homicide. Time slowed to a meandering crawl allowing my imagination to send me into a panic. I had no idea what to expect, so I allowed myself the virtue of assumption. I figured it had something to do with Quinn and my bruised knuckles. After all, the last thing I remember was standing in this same elevator with Quinn on our way for drinks at the behest of Angel Batista. I was also subtly accosted by an unnerving feeling at the pit of my stomach. My predatory instincts had been sharpened recently; I could tell something was wrong. But the worst of it was not knowing what secrets I may have let slip – what skeletons I inadvertently divulged to the oblivious world in my drunken stupor. In the past, many people have told me their own dark little secrets under the indiscriminating influence of alcohol, thereby feeding my growing concerns in the present, and consequently reshaping my immediate future for better or worse. No matter the consequence for my earlier actions, however, I am quite fond of my sister. I can do _this_ much for her, at least. The doors to Homicide opened.

Luckily, the department had less torso-traffic than in the afternoon. This would have decreased distressed Dexter's chances for scrutiny had the usual suspects not decided to loiter around. And though I had very little time before I was recognized and my transgressions from earlier revealed, whatever they may have been, it seemed the department was without Quinn. Angel remained standing before his desk with one hand resting against his forehead, overwhelmed by the abundance of paperwork cluttering his desk.

"Chingada madre." Angel lifted his head in reprieve from his impending bureaucratic punishment. In consolation, he noticed me standing doe-eyed just beyond the department's glass doors. "Hey Dex!" Angel waved me over. Let's hope drunk Dexter played nicer than his sober counterpart does.

"Hey. Do you know where my sister is? She called me in. I guess it's kind of important." Diverting from eventual incriminating topics is a fundamental rule of social survival; or so I've discovered.

Angel laughed, "that's an understatement. Yeah, she's waiting for you in Maria's office."

"Thanks." As I turned with a little more haste than I would have liked, he spoke out again.

"When you're done, we need to talk. Family comes first, though." Talk? About what? No time to think about that now. Angel was right, family does come first. Even if that means the Dark Passenger has to skip a couple meals. I nodded to Angel and made my way to the door of the Lieutenant's office. The shades were still drawn, and a weak light permeated through the small openings and fissures between the slim panels. I knocked on the door, and with complete disregard to the cries of my survival intuition, I entered.

The mood hadn't changed since the last time I was in the office. However, I noticed Deborah was alone. This was no longer an intervention for my sister. Now, it felt more like a confessional for Dexter. Deborah rapidly wiped her eyes on her sleeves. "Hey bro. Nice to see you could make it for once."

I took a seat on the couch beside her, "of course. Anything for my beautiful sister." Deborah laughed, then pointed to her face. I got the hint; she wasn't looking too good. "So what's up?"

"What's up? Fuck, Dex." After a short silence, she realized I wasn't getting _this_ hint, "the Ice Truck Killer ring any bells? Do you even remember what happened to me?" Her tears were suddenly restocked and open for business.

"Yes, Deborah, that's not what I meant. I know all of this has to be really hard on you." Good start, I thought, "did you want me to pick up some food? Or we can go out? I know a good steak house by the apartment. I'm buying." I never did have much luck with subtly. She didn't budge. So much for killing two birds with one stone. By now, my stomach interjected his selfish opinion during conversational down-time. The social dead air that carries the Dark Passenger's thoughts into my consciousness had a voice for the time being. And it grumbled fiercely.

Deborah's eyes shrank with intensity. "Is that seriously _all_ you can think about right now, Dexter; Food?" Deborah began to shake. "I'm having a pretty awful fucking day, and I could sure use some fucking support from my only brother!" Guilt trips were always my sister's trump card, and for some reason, I always end up folding.

"You're right. I'm a complete prick. I'm sorry. How can I help?"

My sister breathed deeply, "I need to ask you something. And when I do, I need you to not get mad."

I reassured her, "nothing you can say will make me angry."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now would you just spit it out?" I hurried her, but I was playful. She reacted positively for a moment then refocused herself on her worries.

"Did you," Deborah paused for a moment to take another stab at the question, "did you love Rita?" I was truly surprised by the question and equally perplexed with conjuring a logical response. Since time was an issue, I found myself creating on a whim again. I'm not sure where the words and thoughts were coming from, but I had to rely on them to help my sister.

"I did." Dexter, come on. "I did love Rita. A lot. She made me feel comfortable." I instantly found myself in deep recollection. "Most of the time, though, she was my escape."

Deborah had to butt in, "escape what?"

"Myself. My life. My job. When I was with her, I felt safe. It made me a better husband to Rita and a better father to my kids. She's a constant reminder of the positive influences I'm capable of having on my family. She opened my eyes to a lot of better things. In a way, Rita will always be with me. Closer than anyone." I may have been honest with myself, and out loud, for the first time in a long while. I'm glad Deborah was there to witness it.

Deborah had been welling with tears since I walked in the room, and only then did she let loose. She fell on me for comfort, crying on my shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Dex. I just had to be sure. You know?"

"Sure of what?"

She pushed away to better address me, "I just remembered how you and your brother were found in that shipping container. About your mother, and what you both saw. When I fell in lo--" Deborah caught herself, "when I _thought_ I fell in," she still struggled, "you know. He used to tell me things that made me happy. That fuck. And I believed him. Turned out to be the fucking Ice Truck Killer. That piece of shit didn't feel a thing with me, or anyone." I felt Deborah driving at a point that could put the integrity of devout brother Dexter in jeopardy. "And ever since I discovered who you were, I started to notice similarities between you and your psychotic brother. I didn't say anything, but I could have sworn you didn't feel a thing when Rita died. Not even a tear when social services took Cody and Astor to their bitch grandmother's. You hardly come by to see Harrison." The lecture sent Deborah into a daze. She'd forgotten to breathe and once again found comfort on my shoulder. I held her tight.

"I think about Harrison, Cody and Astor all the time. But I'm not ready yet." In every truth, there is a lie. In this case, I would be with my kids again; to raise them and protect them. But for now, I needed my late night bloody vices to sustain me. It wouldn't be long now.

Deborah and I spent another couple minutes discussing future plans and joking about mental health before I was free to go. After doing the right thing and offering my sister a ride home several times, which she inevitably declined, I found myself on the other side of the Lieutenant's door with Angel's back turned toward me. This was my chance! I walked with a long gait and swift, powerful strides toward the gleaming freedom of the elevator doors and of course, Peter Olshansky. "Dex!" I didn't get very far before Angel spotted me.

I approached him, concealing my bruised knuckles within my pocket, "what's up?"

"I just wanted to talk to you about earlier."

"It's all good, man," I took control immediately, but I sounded ridiculous using modern colloquialism, "I don't remember anything that happened. I guess I drank too much. Thanks, by the way."

"Of course. My pleasure, buddy. But, you say you don't remember a thing?"

"Not a thing." I said confidently.

Angel smiled, "never mind. You're gonna love this then. After I left, apparently Quinn got into a fight with some random asshole over some stupid drunk shit, so the guy sucker-punched him in the face. I gave him the rest of the night off." I couldn't have smiled more. "Was just hoping you got a look at the guy. Anyway, I got a lot of work to do, as you can see. Unless you wanna help?"

I started backing away, "no thank you. It's been a long day." And the night is only beginning.

"Just thought I'd ask. Take it easy, Dexter." Angel Batista, sold a bill of goods by a man with a clandestine motive. Why would Quinn lie to Sergeant Batista about his black eye? Why protect me? It didn't matter. The thoughts were in one ear and out the other as the doors to the elevator opened. After they closed, I found myself in an audible vacuum -- a silent chamber with only dead air. In the brooding stillness, I heard my Dark Passenger whispering to me; "Peter."

"Peter."

"Peter."

"Peter..."


	9. Chapter 09

I felt the steady insurgence of energy rising from the small of my back, up through my abdomen, around my shoulders and finally through the roots of my hair. Energy would sometimes well up in my arms and I would fantasize about my knife breaking through the chest wall and purging the demon inside a monster encased within saran wrap. My eye lids closed in rapture of the familiar euphoric energy I was soaring high on. A few moments later, I came to, and found myself parked outside Peter Olshansky's house, alerted by even the slightest of motions in the dark valences bordering my peripherals. All my senses were on edge. Sadly, a slight gust of wind and a stray cat outlined the excitement for the evening until, after some hours, Mr. Olshansky emerged from his home, kissed his wife and made for his truck. "Out for a drive, are we?" It was a rhetorical question. He entered his car and pulled out from his drive way.

The drive took ten minutes over all. Albeit, a complicated ten minutes since following someone, especially if they've been recently exposed as an alleged murderer, can be particularly methodical and exasperating in theory. Much harder to pull off in practice. Still, I had done it.

Olshansky pulled into the parking lot of a down-trodden bar. I didn't have much time to appreciate the absurdity of me going to two bars in the same day, nor the time to properly manage the vomit coursing up through my throat by the mere thought of it. Instead, I drove through and pulled back around into the shade to avoid any unnecessary attention. "Always Be Cautious." The ABC's of Harry's Code. I reached into my glove compartment and withdrew a syringe. After a quick check to insure I filled it with the necessary amount of sedative, I exited my car and approached the bar, concealing the syringe in my back pocket. As I approached the front doors adorned with graffiti and further vandalized local band stickers, I was struck by an unusual feeling. It's almost as though I was offended by how poorly maintained the bar was. Entering the dive gave me no respite from my initial reaction. It was just as much the proverbial shit-hole as it appeared on the outside. Their backwood patrons, who buy their dinners in bottles, did little to abstain from this fact.

Given a few seconds, I was able to overcome the shock of my environment and located my dear friend, Olshansky. He was posted comfortably against a wall with beer in hand, staring at the other, more feminine, customers. How did the old nursery rhyme go? 'Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater. Had a wife, and couldn't keep her.' I wonder why? Must be because Peter had eyes for so many others. Most people don't deal with their problems by killing them, though. Most _normal_ people, anyway. I guess that's why Peter and I were destined to meet. It was fate that I found myself at this bar. After all, I don't drink. Especially after earlier.

But it's all part of the disguise. If I was going to avoid aforementioned unnecessary attention, I was going to need a beer. Oh my god, a beer! I gagged violently on the inside, nearly breaking my stalwart exterior composure. 'You can do this, Dexter,' I thought. I regained my senses and approached the bar confidently. Of the two bartenders working that night, I was greeted by the taller one. The other, a woman who looked far too young to be serving drinks, was at the opposite end amusing her degenerate tippers. The child bartender flashed me a look, smuggling in her smile from the conversation she was having. Her smile seemed to disappear unusually quickly, though, despite the jovial nature of their conversation. Was there something on my face? I did a quick check. Nothing. I nodded my head, raised my beer to her, then returned to my respective post opposite the room from Olshansky.

As I stood leaning and gently rocking against a cocktail table, I made constant note of dear Peter. In so doing, my imagination ran away with me. How was I going to make my move? This wasn't a problem so much as it was a mystery – a fascinating riddle from which I took great relish in answering. I smiled at the number of possibilities. I may have let loose a laugh or two with the details of the better ones. In the end, it usually happens suddenly and swiftly. But it's always best to be prepared. So I stood, lightly rocking my head to the atrocious juke box music, imagining to myself.

I didn't finish half my beer before his phone went off. I gleaned a sudden look of frustration in Olshansky's face as he viewed the caller I.D. His behavior shifted from self-assured to a more erratic and disturbed demeanor. He hastily paid his tab and made for the doorway. This was it! A little faster than I'd preferred, but when life hands you lemons, you immobilize the lemon, stab it, cut it up into several pieces and drown them in water. Don't forget to save the juice.

I became Olshansky's shadow during the relatively short journey to his truck. I had the narrowest of windows to physically accomplish my impromptu attack, and shorter to take note of any witnesses in the area. This was a huge risk. Something that would constitute a lecture from Harry, that's for sure. But the bar was fairly empty and we were walking _away_ from the other cars in the lot. There was just enough reasonable doubt to tilt the overall risk in my favor. 'I can only be wrong if I fuck up.' I thought, 'so, don't fuck it up.' I was taking more chances and living spontaneously more often now than I ever did before. Living in the moment is such a human thing to do. I'd argue that they make most of their mistakes in the moment. Evolutionarily speaking, it's my most fundamental advantage. And so it was exhibited, seemingly without warning and by sheer instinct, through my hand as I braced it tightly around Peter's throat. My superiority over Peter immobilized him as he was entering his truck. Before he had the slightest chance to counter my hold, I punctured his neck with the sharp end of the syringe and injected his paralysis. His knees buckled and his torso fell limp on the driver's seat. After a brief struggle loading the rest of Peter's body into the cabin, I acquired his keys and started the engine.

The truck drove smoother and quieter than I expected. It crossed my mind to buy one, but I quickly remembered the kids. The van wasn't just transportation, it was a way of life. A better way, ultimately. With a small portion of my hunger satisfied and the knowledge of the final course looming within tongue's reach, I was comforted by thoughts of the kids and the loud, rocky drives in the van. These were just thoughts, of course. I looked at my watch, 2:12am? Harrison's sleeping. Nothing I can do now. Why not drive the new friend to _my _version of 'nowhere?'


	10. Chapter 10

"Olshansky," I whispered calmly into Peter's ear, "wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up."

A slight curl of his nose. A squint in his eyes, and yes! A murmur. The feeble onset of recovering paralysis. I can read the signs better than English. I retired back to allow Peter's mind and body to undergo an exhilarating symptomatic opera as the restrained predator ultimately realizes he's the prey. The only thing more absolutely euphoric comes after the rush when the predator finally _accepts_ his new role. 'I can't wait,' I thought, and the snap of another lettuce stock resounded throughout the room in a satisfying crunch. That crisp sensation is quite possibly my favorite part about eating a sandwich, apart from the meat. One bite. Two bites. Three bites. I hadn't yet swallowed and with each crack of the watery root, Peter's eyes winced while shut. There was also a rapid rhythm of air I could scarcely discern coming from Peter's nose. He was afraid. Could he hear me? If he did, I imagined he was awake and only kept his eyes closed in vain as some laughable attempt to shield himself from his fears. Guilt shows in this way. I felt another rush, but this specific delight was constrained to my stomach. The evidence was stacking neatly in my favor.

"Wake up." I said, with absolutely no regard for response. I still had one bite of my sandwich left, after all. I tossed it to the back of my eager throat and embraced the thrill of marrying my two exquisite vices. I dare say, I was almost overwhelmed to tears until Peter's eyes shot open. Must have been my playful moaning after each bite. "Wake up!" I hollered. It was fairly sudden, I'll admit. He immediately jumped, or rather he shook violently, as best he could wrapped and bound tightly in my food-preserving body bag. I could only laugh, but I laughed to myself. I didn't want to come off to my new friend as disrespectful. Silly me, he probably couldn't hear my laugh through his deafening screams anyway; which had to stop.

In one fluid motion, I found myself standing over Mr. Olshansky, screaming down at him. I screamed. With rapture, I screamed. And as the volume and length of my roar exceeded my prey's, I realized fear was _not_ the strongest weapon a monster could wield. It was hunger. Simply put, the Dark Passenger's thirst for blood was greater than Peter's will to live. Guilt, too, can have this debilitating effect on a human.

In the silence following our moonlight duet, Peter stared fiercely into my eyes. He had no choice; the rest of my face was concealed behind an uncomfortably warm wool winter mask. He began to moan. With each effort to control his breathing, I could hear the weakness in his muted yelping – seeping through the diminutive cracks in his clamped lips and further muffled by the cloth gag I forced in his throat. After several consistent yelps, I stood up and stared down at him with intrigue. With several more repetitions, I became restless. "Stop moaning." Nothing. More repetitions. "Stop moaning. Stop moaning. Stop moaning. Stop moaning. Stop. Fucking. Moaning!" Peter's moaning ceased and his eyes tensed with fear. I took relish in his submission and decided to share my excitement. "Look at me," I demanded. It's not as if he was looking anywhere else, I just wanted to stare into his soul a little longer. "Hi." I released a mild smirk, "I bet you're wondering what you're doing here," I looked down his tall, naked body encased in his plastic cocoon, "so helpless. Have you ever felt so helpless, Mr. Peter Lindsay Olshansky?" I waited a moment before he meagerly nodded his head, "really? Tell me. I'm interested," I removed the gag from his mouth.

"Who are you?" His voice trembled.

"Wrong answer." I circled around to his head, unsheathed my scalpel and held his head down with my left hand. His thrusts were admirable, but in the end, the scalpel entered his flesh. I pulled down, tearing a clean, shallow slice through Peter's cheek, yielding the crimson judgment I've purged more than fifty times before from my various prey. The muscles throughout his body tightened to their apex and he screamed. I managed to exert just enough force on his jugular to regain his fickle attention. I extracted some of Peter's blood as it rushed down his neck from the fresh gash in his cheek with a Pasteur pipette, then carefully produced a small glass slide from my back pocket. I breathed slowly as I pushed Peter's blood back from the pipette onto the slide."Welcome to the family, Peter. Hopefully, you're nicer to mine than you were with your last." Olshansky looked into my eyes. The strain of his stare was lessened from before, replaced with a slight glaze of tears. I finally saw the acceptance I was looking for, if only a little untutored. "Look!" I pointed to a photograph of his deceased wife resting on the table-top of an infant's high-chair. He followed my instructions. In a matter of seconds, his tear glaze turned into a well. The well into a dam. The dam into a down-pour. He was mourning. Grief. _This_ was grief!

_This_ is what everyone was expecting to see from me after Rita's death and the kids were taken away. In retrospect, I see how I would have seemed out of place. I couldn't be forced to cry like that. All this time, my alternate persona – my Dark Passenger – has been open and vulnerable to society. I've been careless with my disguise, and negligent with my behavior. It seemed possible these strange and alien _feelings_ I've had since Rita's death might be worth exploring, but I had no idea where to begin. It wasn't the time, anyway. The duration of time between Peter's wailing and pleads for amnesty was lengthening. Re-enter Death Deciding Dexter.

"As I was saying. I don't think you've ever been this helpless, but you say otherwise. I'd like you to expound on that." I was truly interested. Also, the wool mask was itching my face.

He attempted to start a phrase several times, but each try ended with a succession of heavy breathing. Peter was obviously a stranger to pain and even stranger to torture. He was a completely different monster from the likes of me. A weaker monster. A monster of the passionate sort. They think first with their heart and their emotions; compelled by spontaneity. He was ever-haunted by the evil he'd done and the lives he ruined. I couldn't imagine any punishment of mine would cut him any deeper.

"Have I been helpless? Helpless is living without hope...my girls," Peter choked for a moment, "it was going to be a girl. Me, my wife, and my daughter. Oh my God, my daughter." He paused once more as he waded through torrents of emotional trauma, "that wasn't me. Back then, God dammit, that wasn't me!"

And there it was; the conviction I so desperately needed. Remorseful, yes, but Peter Olshansky was guilty nonetheless. To be honest, my instincts are never wrong. It's true, in fact I had no evidence of Peter Olshansky's guilt prior to the abduction. However, I had my intuition. Harry would have never approved of this method, but a monster needs to adapt and evolve in every situation. With near certainty, I was able to instinctively identify Peter's guilt. It was a risk, but a necessary one. In the end, Peter was just too good at covering his tracks. Maybe that was the real reason I relied on my instincts for justice. Whatever the case, I had my testimony. I had my slide, and the moon was full and red with spilled blood. As I stared down at the whimpering shrink-wrap strangled to my table, I suddenly lost all concept of the details surrounding Peter Olshansky; the person, the prey, the husband and would-be father. He was nothing but a kill in the end. A kill that would send my senses soaring. My pupils dilated, and I abandoned Peter in favor of my tools table.

During this time, Peter became more intelligible, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, you hear me! I made a mistake! I've paid for my sins! I pay every fucking day! What do you want from me!?" I returned with a larger knife in hand, stood behind him, and loomed over his glaring eyes. I cordially removed my wool winter mask in light of his new-found guilt.

"I already have everything I need."

And for the briefest of moments, I felt like an orchestral conductor. My arms rose strong and confidently upward from Peter's chest, holding taut within the clasp of my hands a sharp and pointy baton. With the ascent of my arms, the volume of Peter's voice escalated as well. It was beautiful. Everything seemed as one; one final and great unison crescendo, then the climax at our respective peaks. Finally, with a swift and powerful downward motion, the song was over and the room once again briefly filled with the sound of broken lettuce. Red. I looked over at his dead-wife's photograph. She may not have been smiling before, but fuck me if she didn't have the makings of one now.

Then, as the Dark Passenger promised, I released my grip from my knife embedded within Olshansky's rib-cage, and took my first deep breath in months.


	11. Chapter 11

I'd seen only two moons since I introduced my Dark Passenger to the newly dismembered Peter Olshansky. And in the wake of my sweet surrender to Dexter's deranged dilemma, I experienced the euphoric rush of clarity. It felt as if a gentle current carried my restored body from shopping errand A to domestic chore B with none of the worry or concern of leaving incriminating evidence in the undertow. I may not have been wearing the same familiar skin I've grown accustom to – and it only lasted between two and three weeks, but the clarity I'm exposed to after each kill is a sobering glimpse of the surreal life I've always wanted. It's as if I'm holding my head above water, struggling to stay afloat before I'm inevitably dragged back down into the deep recesses of my violent reptilian urges. I _live_ for these few weeks.

'_Tonight_ is the night,' I thought to myself, holding the steering wheel with one hand, while in the back seat, Harrison teethed on the index finger of my other hand. Unfortunately, it _was_ the night. I don't easily abandon my well-earned peace and alone time with my son, but considering the circumstances, what else had I to do? If I was going to spend time with all of my children, I would have to go to Gail's house, Rita's mother, who currently held supreme guardian rights over Cody and Astor. I guess it _was_ my fault. Nevertheless, before falling even remotely close to the brink of guilt, I looked through the rear-view mirror and connected eyes with my son.

"We can always turn back, you know. Spend the rest of the night just you and me, buddy." Harrison smiled, "just say the word." Maybe I was looking for any reason to avoid Gail, but it was useless. Besides, nothing in life that's worth having comes easy. I was learning that the hard way. I managed to take one last deep breath before my car pulled into Gail's drive way. "Here we are!" I tried to sound excited. After all, Harrison still had a chance to enjoy himself.

I knocked several times on the front door of Gail's house. It was a modest home, but the recent premium upkeep clearly saved it from alerting social services. Though, in light of Gail's very compulsive and domineering attitude, I wasn't surprised.

I prepared to knock one more time just before the door swung open and revealed Gail, sporting a white cotton robe behind the screen door partition. "I would have made you wait a little longer, but I couldn't do that to my little _Harrison_, could I? Come in." She promptly opened the screen door.

"Nice to see you, too." Harry also taught me to mind my manners. As I closed the door behind me, I surveyed the living room and the adjoining dining room before finding a comfortable place for Harrison on an infant's blanket in front of the TV. "Where are the kids?" I asked.

"They're fine. They're watching television in their room." Gail retired into the kitchen, "I made sloppy joes for the kids. There's leftovers, if you're interested." She knew damn well I didn't care for sloppy joes.

"Thanks, but no thanks." I patted my stomach, "already ate." Gail nodded her head and continued toward the freezer and retrieved a half-finished bottle of vodka. She poured a few ounces into a rocks glass and mixed it with orange juice. My right eyebrow lifted.

"What would social services think?" I felt a subtle, but eerie confidence any time I had the upper-hand on Gail.

"Oh?" She laughed to herself for a moment, "you don't want to go there with me right now, son. The only reason you're here, and the only reason those children are in that room watching that fucking television, is because you knocked up my daughter." Gail certainly had a way with words. She finished mixing her drink and immediately headed for her bedroom. "The remote is on the coffee table. There's food in the fridge for the kids if they get hungry – it's the bowls in the aluminum foil. Also, I'm leaving my door unlocked in case of an emergency." Gail paused for a moment to take the temperature of the room, "look. I don't have the energy to fight about this again, so I'm just gonna come out and say it; I want you gone before I wake up." She waited for a response from me. I gave her nothing. "I'm being serious." I barely twitched. "Dexter, I _don't_ have to agree to these weekly play dates."

"Alright. I get it. Before you wake up, I'll be..." I threw my thumb up behind my should and flashed Gail an empty smile, then watched as she disappeared into her bedroom. "Yeah. Fuck you, too." I suppose I could understand her pain. Losing her only daughter and levying even partial custody of her grand children to a 'recovering' drug addict can have its ways of fucking with a mother's psyche. But that certainly didn't stop me from fantasizing about the hundreds of different ways I could disembowel her and erase her from existence through the Gulf Stream.

After picking up Harrison, I followed the hallway to the children's bedroom, knocked on their door, then slowly and respectfully entered. Inside, Astor was slumped over the side of the top bunk, peering down at the TV in the opposite corner of the room. Cody, on the other hand, was asleep on the bottom bunk covered in blankets.

"You just walk into other people's rooms now?" Astor never averted her eyes from the television screen.

"Sorry. I thought I knocked." One of the first things I learned from Rita about parenting was that the parent always has the right of way. It's the parent's job to teach, nurture, provide, and when necessary, discipline. But I was beginning to find it more and more difficult to make sense of the gray areas. The ripples left in the wake of Rita's death were influencing more than I could ever realize. To be honest, I miss Rita more every time I'm reminded of that fact.

"Whatever." Astor remained unhinged from her permanent connection with the television. It was futile at this point to attempt a breakthrough with Astor, so I compromised with myself and took seat on the floor, watching the local news with my children. I placed Harrison on the floor and let him toy with my fingers as I followed a well-groomed and familiar male news anchor sign off for a break. Just before commercial, the station broadcast an image of several garbage bags thrown in a pile next to a large pool with the headline; 'Return of the Bay Harbor Butcher?' My blood ran white. Suffice it to say, my attention was glued to the television.

Astor was fast asleep by the time the midnight news team took to the air. But I continued to follow intently as each unrelated robbery, disaster relief, local accomplishment and international awareness story was vomited onto the screen every five minutes. Still, once in a while, they would report an update on the new Bay Harbor Butcher murders. Apparently, six bodies were found decapitated with exacting discipline and bundled into six, thirteen gallon trash bags at a local Boys and Girls Club pool. Already, the media knew based on the rate of decomposition that the cadavers couldn't be less than a week old. Also, forensic analysts on the scene already concluded that there was a surprising lack of blood and general DNA markers to make a positive identification of the victims. If it wasn't for the fact that the Bay Harbor Butcher case was suddenly dancing in the limelight, I would have appreciated, and possibly envied, the work of this new monster. First, a perfect representation of the Ice Truck Killings, now a stab at the pristine Bay Harbor Butcher? With only two days separation, that basically eliminated the reasonable possibility of two individual copy-cat killers. The news didn't stake any claim, but I deduced it; this was all the work of the same deranged monster. As the last commercial flashed on the screen, I checked my watch. 5:38 in the morning? Yeah, it was time to go.

I picked Harrison up from the carpet beside me and kissed Cody and Astor good night before leaving Gail's house. I fastened Harrison to his car seat in the back and took my position behind the wheel of my car. With mild hesitation, I sat motionless in the driver's seat of the van, contemplating the many possible city-wide ramifications of bringing the Bay Harbor Butcher case back to the social consciousness. While it's true that the case was effectively closed naming then Sergeant Doakes the Butcher instead of yours truly, I still lived, and continue to live, by a very important Code. Whoever this person was, running around mimicking with incredible precision the likes of Brian Moser and Dexter Morgan was suddenly a matter worth looking into. I took a few extra minutes as I mentally prepared myself for the drive home where I planned to fall asleep, with only minor interruptions from Harrison, then awaken partially refreshed. I'd jump into a hot shower, change into some clean clothes, fix a complete and healthy breakfast, then begin my day en route to the station for the first time in a month. Perhaps it was time for Dedicated Detective Dexter to go back to work.


	12. Chapter 12

DING!

The elevator doors, in all their gleaming silver glory, opened to the floors of Miami Metro's Homicide Division. I wish I could say I was more prepared for my first day back to work, but as luck would have it, Harrison demanded more attention the night before than I could have reasonably expected. As a result, I felt less clear-headed and focused than usual, but by no means was my fatigue a handicap. I've stalked the more clever and wary monsters through the most humid Miami nights, and pounced on the stronger and more brutish of them with overwhelming rigor after just a simple cat nap. However, it was the nature of my dark passenger to fuel my body with natural adrenaline whenever I felt the rampant pounding of the World's fists at the foot of my closet door. Such a phenomenon was a fairly consistent affair, given my occasional midnight delights, however it wasn't often that I would experience the symptoms at work. Though it kept me aware and on my toes for the most part, it seemed I was going to need a new place to hide my dismembered skeletons.

I stepped out of the elevator and immediately observed a mass of bodies huddled in the darkened briefing room to my left. They surrounded a projector, all staring at an image on the pull-down screen with lieutenant LaGuerta heading up the discussion. In fact, there were multiple images thrown on the screen. From what I was able to glean at a glance: there were several individual pictures from various angles of a crime scene, a couple suspect mug shots, maybe a bar graph or two, and one image I couldn't easily recognize but looked somewhat like weather predictions. I may have even scarcely observed a photo of a flannel jacket with the right shoulder spattered in blood, as well as a room adorned with white carpeting and corresponding white walls set to chaotic red with the explosion of spilled DNA. I observed only scarcely, and the memory was merely that. After my second step, I had moved on. My lab was only a few short meters away, but for my first day back (and after having already forgotten to pick up the donuts), I could use the silent reception. It wasn't long after I closed the lab's door behind me that I realized I was enveloped by the complacent comfort of silence. Like a warm blanket during a cold and violent storm, I felt at peace. I closed my eyes to embrace the beauty of my circumstances when I was conveniently cut off by insistent knocking on the door. I was hardly surprised when Deborah walked in without admission.

My sister closed the door behind her and she stood shocked for a moment with her arms crossed, "what the fuck, bro? You're just gonna walk in after a month off the job without saying hi?"

"The thought crossed my mind," I responded with an alarming degree of honesty. Deborah wasn't impressed. "Everyone seems busy. Don't want to interrupt them." I played the innocent card. It also happened to be the truth, believe it or not.

"Fuck you, Dex." Deborah leaned in and hugged me for a few moments, "we're all excited to have you back. You _know_ that." I may have elongated the hug by reciprocating, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time – almost as if I understood her on some dissimilar, alien level. "That's why I'm coming to you first."

Excuse me? "Excuse me?" This was never a good sign, and it felt as if both myself and the Dark Passenger knew it. Considering my sister's prior accolades in Homicide, as well as the recent emergence of the Bay Harbor Butcher case, I had no reason to assume I was in for a smooth home-coming.

"Please, bro? It would mean a lot more to me if I could tell _you_ first." Usually I would be happy to support my sister and her wild theories, but this specific theory could very well come crashing down in my own backyard, which may upset Domestic Daddy Dexter quite a bit. Yet, as much as my dark passenger's total anonymity is important to me (in fact, it's pivotal), Deborah's still my sister. Most importantly, whoever left those bodies at the Boys and Girls Club pool was directly threatening my way of life. Indeed, the enemy of my enemy is my family.

"You convinced me. What's this about?"

"Wait. Hold on. Are you telling me you didn't hear shit?" I noticed her pupils dilate. "Tell me you heard something." I like to think I know my sister, especially when considering her passion for police work. There's no mistaking her devotion. She craved and nurtured the rush of the chase almost like a drug, or a hungry dog who steals a faint whiff of a delicious aroma; the mind is dumb-struck into tunnel vision. A great quality for a detective. Not so good if you happen to be the top dog's sweet aroma. "That psycho who copied the Ice Truck Killer's MO three days ago is back. You're not gonna believe what the sick fuck did."

I paused for a moment. "They found trash bags full of severed limbs at the Boys and Girls Club. Obvious homage to the Butcher. Sorry, news tipped me off." I hoped I hadn't reaped my sister of her excitement. Judging by her pupils, that was clearly not the case.

"Fuck me running. Look who thinks he knows shit." Deborah laughed with confidence, "then maybe you could tell me why he's doing all of this? I mean, it's obviously the same fuckin' psychopath. You could have probably figured that one out -- but then why does he only use cadavers? Does he have a reason, or is he just trying to fuck with our heads?" She was a smart one, but the clues were embarrassingly apparent. Still, I'd hate to underestimate another child of Harry.

"I can't really say."

"Shit bro, you're usually the one who's pretty good at this sort of thing. Give it a couple days." She smiled and jumped headlong into her segue, "in the meantime, this is _my_ theory. Now, I've been thinking a lot about this Gravedigger guy, and it can't just be coincidence that all the bodies were discovered to be dead weeks before he put them on display, right? He wants to commit the act, but pay none of the consequences." I was impressed so far, even though she came off a little rehearsed.

"Makes sense."

"Why? For shits and giggles? I got to thinking there had to be a reason for this. Nobody just exhumes bodies so they can mimic a serial killer without a purpose. It doesn't make any fucking sense. Not that killing people makes sense or even idolizing them -- whatever." I was beginning to see her passion develop and evolve with each breath. She wasn't just a detective anymore, she had a purpose. There's no denying the tremendous negative influence the copy-cat mock-ups were having on my poor Deborah, but I allowed her to indulge this 'passion' so long as it gave her purpose and maybe even a meaningful distraction. "But what if he's only practicing?"

"I don't know, Debs. From what I understand, it's all pretty clean. The guy's a pro."

"Jesus Christ, Dex. I wasn't talking about his technique." Step lightly, Dexter. Lady subtext hits for both teams. "I was talking about his identity. I think he's playing around with ideas. Trying on different sizes, seeing which one fits, y'know?" Clever girl! I'll admit, I hadn't spent too much time reflecting on the limited evidence available regarding this unique copy-cat, but I was immediately convinced by Deborah's rationale. Unfortunately, I now had the slightly larger concern that my sister was capable of understanding the mind of a monster. Worse yet, this particular monster. "So here's the real million dollar question; what happens when he finds his identity?" She sounded slightly out of breath, "is any of this making sense?"

"It does." I held it as long as I could, "but you know what LaGuerta's gonna say." So much for supporting my sister. To my surprise, Deborah was unmoved.

"I couldn't give a fuck what she says, you know that." Then she smiled at me, "but I trust _you_. If you think there's something to go on, it's worth a shot. Right?"

If, at the very least, it meant she would leave me alone in the comforting silence of my lab? "Right."

"Thanks, Dex." Deborah hugged me one more time in celebration then turned and swung open the door, "oh, shit. Before I forget, LaGuerta wants you to join us in the conference room whenever you get settled." Peace is overrated, anyway. "Welcome back." She slapped her hand on the door frame and disappeared around the corner.

As Deborah left, I quickly set up my laptop, threw a few strewn papers into the trash, then made my way toward the conference room where a host of co-workers stood in relative darkness, still staring into the projected images reflecting off the pull-down screen. Everyone was there – including detective Joey Quinn.

When I entered, I half-expected a small amount of fanfare. 'I knew you could do it, Dex! I'm proud of you, and Harry's proud of you, too.' Deborah, of course, would be the first to officially welcome me back to work. I'm sure Quinn would have to tell me 'well done, Morgan!' Shortly after, I imagine Masuka couldn't restrain himself from making the usual inappropriate comment, 'it's time to embrace your bachelorhood. Hookers and beer, Dex! Hookers and beer!' Angel might then approach me to bring things back to a relative norm, 'great job, bro! Way to stick it to the grief!' Who knows? Maybe even LaGuerta would shake my hand, 'Dexter, only a normal human being could feel such grief then overcome the debilitating pain of loss like you did. I'm honored to work with you. Welcome back!' Ideal, but I only half-expected it.

I turned the handle of the conference room door, quietly walked in, and panned over the faces of my temporary room mates. The room fell quiet and all eyes drew toward me. It would be a lie if I said I didn't feel my heart pacing noticeably faster. "You're just in time. Could you shut the door, please?" LaGuerta broke the silence. For a few seconds longer, I remained the proverbial deer in headlights. Almost at once, I snapped back into awareness and promptly closed the door. "I know it's your first day back, but I'd really like your professional opinion on this."

I took a deep breath,"happy to help."

"Thank you, Dexter." LaGuerta cleared her throat, "which brings us to motive. Morgan?"

Deborah also cleared her throat, "looks like crime of passion. The murder weapon, an aluminum baseball bat, was discovered on site, covered in the victim's blood. Masuka, that's you."

Masuka stood up from his chair, he looked a little short for breath, "the blood spatter pattern on the flannel jacket has a similar projected pattern consistent with the source from the victim's left temple." There was a natural pause, unfortunately Masuka had to elaborate, "with enough force, a blunt object – let's say, an aluminum bat – can inflict enough damage to tear a direct wound through the blood-brain barrier; something more easily accomplished through the temple, as you can clearly see by all the blood. Then pressure attempts to equalize, blood keeps pumping, spray keeps spraying. Next thing you know you're the next Jackson Pollock, but the twist is you can paint with your mind." Masuka laughed to himself. His entire audience was desperate for a conclusion, save for yours truly; what can I say? I was impressed by the man's keen artistic sense. "I kind of took that one and ran with it, didn't I? Anyway. Blood sprayed from the victim's temple onto the right shoulder of the suspect, which is how we got the blood on the flannel." Masuka seemed to stop in mid-sentence, then sat down to continue reading his magazine.

Deborah was left in mild disbelief, "forensics also found another blood pattern on the wall adjacent to the victim's body. It's from the same source as the flannel, but Masuka apparently couldn't find the time to tell you that in his report."

Masuka was unwavering with his focus on an article in his magazine, "don't be jealous, baby," he then shot his fist into the air, "what's up, Dex?" I further noticed, sitting to the left of my sister, Quinn regarded me with very little enthusiasm through his magnificent black-eye, whereas Angel managed to offer a generous nod-with-a-grin. Some fanfare.

The discussion meandered along the more boring technical time-and-place drivel and forever lost me to the projected images on the screen. As I stared into the three dimensional jig-saw puzzle, lines and connections began to form. Curious angles matched and the proportions were nothing short of perfect. In the end, the pictures of the bloody crime scene and abandoned flannel jacket alone painted a picture greater than the sum of its individual parts. It was a neatly wrapped gift for just the right occasion.

"What do you think, Dexter?" LaGuerta asked, shaking me from my trance.

"Um." Suddenly, my cellphone started to ring. I stood doe-eyed once again, fumbling haphazardly about my pockets, "do you mind?"

"Of course not. You can take it outside."

I thanked LaGuerta and exited the room. As I glanced down at my caller I.D, the door closed behind me and a hand pulled on my shoulder. It was Deborah, waving her phone at me. "I was trying to get your attention in there. Then I thought to call you. Sneaky, huh?" She snickered. "Sorry, it couldn't wait. Maria's gonna break us for lunch pretty soon. Do you think I should bring it up before, or after?"

I was still attempting to make sense of the situation, "aren't we trying to find a suspect to a completely unrelated case?"

"It's open and shut. Forensic evidence up the ass. This is the just an intelligence meeting for all the formal bullshit."

The situation wasn't getting any clearer, "then why would LaGuerta need my opinion?"

Deborah sighed, "you clearly don't understand women." My sister, the detective. "So is that a before, or after? Kinda need your help here." She waited a moment longer for my response.

It only took a moment, but as Deborah glared into my eyes with that merciless determination of hers, I witnessed only pain. She truly needed a distraction and a purpose to drive for. Unfortunately for her, my new friend wasn't on the menu. No. I couldn't allow this mysterious monster to end up anywhere but on _my _table after he thoughtlessly bastardized the masterpieces my brother and I worked so hard to create. It was a simple decision overall; he had to suffer the judgment of society's Dark Defender. Fortunately for me, luck offered up a neatly wrapped gift to start me on my way. "Neither."

"What?"

"Your Gravedigger hasn't actually killed anyone. Last I heard, we work in homicide. It's a loss from the start." I was quick to swoop in a slash down Deborah's dreams.

"You sound like LaGuerta." I deserved that.

Not to undo my sister's enthusiasm, I provided her with complimentary reassurance, "not to worry though. I might have something a little better."

She laughed to herself, "all of a sudden?" I sensed an undertone of sarcasm.

"Actually? Yeah. If you don't mind waiting 'til the end of the meeting." Deborah stood apprehensive for a short while before she smirked and returned to the conference room satisfied. I followed close behind.

"Everything okay, Dexter?" LaGuerta asked.

"No problems here."

"Are you sure?" The wild card, Joey Quinn. All of a sudden, the conniving prick had an opinion. "I mean, maybe you just forgot?"

Deborah punched him on the shoulder. "What the fuck, Quinn?" He only laughed.

"Easy," she punched him again as he continued to laugh, "easy, alright? I haven't seen him since we all got drinks at the bar." His attention turned to me, "well?"

"Nope. No problems come to mind, Quinn. Sorry." I paused for a second, "how's the eye?" Quinn was quick to back off. I felt the corner of my lip raise a few millimeters. Sometimes, it's the little things in life.

"Boys, boys, boys. C'mon. I wanna wrap this up so we can go to lunch. Dexter, why don't you take us home."

Now wasn't the time, and I was certainly the wrong person for the honor. Besides, I had more important things to worry about. "Seems like Masuka did a pretty thorough job. There's nothing to add." There was a collective release throughout the room where the tension effectively dissipated into nothingness. Angel flipped on the phosflorescent lights and opened wide the door allowing for clean air to refresh the stagnating musk of the room. As the people cleared out, I managed to keep Deborah behind. "Come here." I walked her to the pull-down screen and turned the projector back to the 'on' position.

"Dex, I've been looking at these photos for the past two hours." Deborah was quick to point out the obvious.

"Look again." I indicated toward the blood spatter on the wall, then to the flannel jacket, "I can already tell you, based on the elongation of the drops and angle of impact, these two high-velocity samples had the same area of convergence, which means both the wall and the jacket had to be hit with blood at the same time."

Deborah began shaking her head. "Dex, I'm not an idiot. There's no blanks or voids on the wall. The spatter goes all the way down. Nothing could have been in the way." She was right, assuming the flannel jacket blocked most of the spray, the wall still had noticeable direct spatter near the base as well; far lower than where the shoulder spatter stopped. Thanks to Harry, however, I was trained to think more critically than others. And along with my years of blood spatter pattern analysis, it wasn't difficult to notice the all-important overlapping drops. By eliminating them, I had a clearer picture of the fatal blow; the precious moment when the bat was released from the side of the victim's head, and the blood coursing comfortably within her skull erupted through the open wound spattering simultaneously on the wall and the jacket, forming a clear and distinct pattern on everything in its path. And like a delicate snow flake, each pattern is different.

"Debs," I started, "no matter how you look at it, Mr. Flannel wasn't standing in the right position to deliver the killing blow. Someone else had to be there." Deborah was reasonably flabbergasted.

"Five fucking minutes. You got all that shit from looking at some blood for five fucking minutes?" She may have needed a little more convincing, but at least she had the bait and I once again had a free pass at my newest friend. She took a deep breath, "I'm gonna need you to walk the scene and double check that overlap theory as soon as possible." Hook, line and sinker.

It may have been shameful to exploit my sister's emotions, but at least I gave her something that could produce immediate results. Not to mention, giving up information on such an obscure and available monster wasn't remotely simple for me or my dark passenger, either. On the other hand, I had the grander and far more intoxicating aroma to follow. Deborah already gave him a name, and he killed nobody for it. It was becoming increasingly evident to me that my sister might need more than just a purpose and distraction. The more I pieced together her recent uncharacteristic behavior, the more I realized she was still heavily under the influence of the late special agent Frank Lundy. Like Lundy, she discovered her very own mystery 'killer,' developed her first wild theories, and even gave the monster a name. It made sense now why Deborah was capable of understanding the Gravedigger. As it turned out, all my sister really needed was an identity.


	13. Chapter 13

"No." There's an unmistakable steadiness in LaGuerta's voice when she passes on her decisions. She suspends tact in favor of a more stern demonstration of candor, "absolutely not, _y no puedo creer que usted pediría_." The latter part she muttered to herself as she braced her forehead with her hand. I think she may have mentioned something about a steak.

Without so much as a bat of the eye, Deborah leaned in over LaGuerta's desk, thereby violating the Lieutenant's personal space. It was a subtle display of aggression; passive even. But I knew my sister too well not to see it coming, "I need this." Deborah spoke softly and with a hint of vibrato. Even though I stood from behind, I enjoyed imagining the intensity of my sister's piercing stare. For once, it wasn't directed at me. Yet in the following several seconds post-exhale, LaGuerta revealed only her indifference.

"Detective Morgan," LaGuerta began, "were we not just beginning to understand each other?" Unmoved. Dispassionate. Callous. Pick your poison. In the end, LaGuerta was closer to all three. She may have been too much for Deborah, but a few synonyms more and LaGuerta could have been my soul mate. "Hijo jesu. Deborah, could you and your brother not pick a shittier time to pull this?" Hello.

I was compelled to interject, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. This was all my fault." Diplomatic Dexter to the rescue.

"I get that, Dexter. It's a blood theory." LaGuerta appeared to be the voice of Deborah's stare, and with comparable piercing power. Needless to say, I wasn't further compelled to respond. "I'm presenting the facts of the case to Captain Matthews in," Maria rolled up her sleeve and checked her watch, "almost three hours, and you want to tell me _now_ that we have the wrong suspect?"

Deborah flashed a confused grimace back at me before confronting LaGuerta again, "are you serious?" My sister had no problem rattling the cages of her corporate masters. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume she fed on it, either. Her displeasure for protocol and discretion in the workplace was well known and virtually admitted, and I could tell from the look on LaGuerta's face, she knew she had her hands full. As uncomfortable as the situation was developing into, my dark passenger also had a morbid curiosity for chaos and disorder. Not a practice he or myself preach in our personal lives, but it is definitely very interesting to observe in the wild.

"Detective Morgan," LaGuerta began before Deborah swiftly took control of the conversation.

"You're worried about the time? Are you serious?" My melodramatic sister, always in pursuit of her own issues.

But the tone, volume and general intensity of LaGuerta's voice only increased the more Deborah pushed, "Detective Morgan, I will not repeat myself to you." Even though it was only LaGuerta's voice that last punctuated the ambiance of the room, the gravity in her immediate absence was intimidating. As if the sum was exponentially smaller than the whole. As expected, Deborah showed signs of submission. A slight cower and a half-step to the rear. She even sighed. Unfortunately for Deborah, this wasn't my fight, and my sister stood to suffer no physical harm. I was, unequivocally, the fly on the wall. As luck would have it, Deborah looked back at me for what I could only assume was support.

"Dex?" Hole in one! I think I was actually getting better at understanding my sister. Perhaps even people in general. "Bro?" Apparently she wanted me to say something.

"Dexter's not here to bail you out." And LaGuerta took the bullet. To be honest, I felt a little more confident responding to my sister under the circumstances. Better safe than sorry, I suppose. "First off, allow me to discredit your accusations outright; there were two, and _only_ two, distinct blood patterns found at the scene. Both were traceable back to the victim and our suspect."

"Lieutenant." Deborah was desperate for clemency. However, judging by LaGeurta's momentum, my sister was shit out of luck.

"Second; footprints at the scene match our suspect's shoes. We couldn't find any other anomalous prints that would indicate even a roommate or a chihuahua was there, much less a second gunman." LaGuerta paused, "Deborah, you know all of this. You also know we found our suspect's finger prints on the god damn murder weapon. But three hours before I submit the case to the Captain, you want to halt the entire process – a month's worth of collaborative police work, on a hunch your brother confronted you with after looking at a couple photos?" The Lieutenant was exacerbated. Shit. She had a good point, too. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see? Maybe _I_ had tunnel vision? "Does that make sense to you?"

Deborah cleared her throat nervously, "no."

"Good." LaGuerta nodded her head and returned her attention to a small stack of paper work piled neatly on her desk, "good. So I trust we understand each other now?" Deborah nodded as well, however my sister's nod was a touch on the shaky side. LaGuerta lifted her head once more, "oh and Dexter, " my hand was already firmly wrapped around the door knob, "I appreciate the contribution earlier, but I only asked you in the meeting to help with your transition back. I apologize if I confused you."

"No offense taken." Truly. I couldn't give a shit. All I cared about was my hand, and the door knob.

"In that case, I want to officially welcome you back. Dexter, it's a pleasure. We've certainly missed you." I don't doubt that she meant it at a more abstract level, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the words were raped from the Officer's Service Manual's glossary on _professional etiquette_.

Naturally, I responded with my apologetic, "thank you." To my sister, I sounded like a puppet; Maria's little bitch. To me, I sounded like the average concerned-for-his-job employee. Hopefully, she would understand.

"Of fucking course." Only my sister could put such an emphasis on 'fuck' in the middle of a whisper. That being said, it was never was a good sign.

"Excuse me?" LaGuerta asked with a modicum of surprise.

Deborah rightly continued her ensuing social train-wreck, "you don't give a shit."

LaGuerta took an immediate read of the situation and dialed in her response accordingly, "Dexter, would you please excuse us?" She never took her eyes off my sister.

"It's just a job to you, isn't it? Someone was _murdered_ – someone's daughter; killed. And your head's too far up the Captain's ass to pay any attention when – "

"Stop!" LaGuerta was standing, successfully ushered away from her pleasant pall of professionalism by my ambitious sister. Suffice it to say, my hand was released from the door knob. "I don't give a shit? I've had to suffer a lot of crap from you, but saying I don't give a shit when it's my job --"

"The fuck would you know? You never lost anyone."

LaGuerta was taken aback. Interrupted, then insulted. Suddenly, I felt like my sister's chances for physical harm were increasing. LaGuerta, on the other hand, must have experienced anger shock. Her body relaxed, and she sat back into her seat. After a few deep breaths, she continued, "I feel like I've been pretty patient with you. The staged Ice Truck murder; I understand completely."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit? Your Gravedigger dug up the Bay Harbor Butcher, too. Or have you been wallowing is self-pity this whole time? I've lost."

"The Butcher doesn't count."

LaGuerta's voice became grave, "you didn't know him. Doakes may have been capable of killing, but he wasn't sick. It's not a popular belief, but the Butcher, detective Morgan, _is_ still alive." I immediately felt a shiver run down my spine – the sudden sting of life, then it was gone. I closed my eyes in an attempt to magnify the fleeting sensation, but Lippy LaGuerta had more to say, "a good man was framed for dozens of murders he didn't commit. His reputation was destroyed. His family name, cursed. Then there are the victim's families to deal with. There are so many, you have no idea how painful it is to speak with each one. I don't give a shit? It's my job." LaGuerta allowed her words to sink in, "look. I'm prepared to dismiss this emotional breakdown so long as you promise not to look into the matter anymore. There is no second suspect. There is no blood overlap. Maybe now we have an understanding?"

"What about the Gravedigger?" Apparently I hadn't completely taken my sister off the scent.

"No murders. Deborah, we're homicide. You know better." LaGuerta paused for a moment, "but you're not alone. Remember that."

"Sure." Deborah was lacking in sincerity, or she was a really bad actress.

"Well. It's been fun, but I have to get ready for the Captain's ass. So if you don't mind."

Deborah shook her head as she left the room. I saluted LaGuerta. "Dexter," she called, "look after your sister."

"Good luck, right?" I smiled and closed the door behind me. Deborah was waiting for me.

"So? We going, or what?"

Deborah really could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I couldn't blame her for believing in my theory. I had an instinct for these kinds of things, as I proved so masterfully with my latest conquest, Mr. Olshansky. Oh, Peter. I could still hear his screams muffled by the crack of his sternum in the faint silences of most water-cooler conversations. I caught myself smiling when I realized Deborah was still waiting for a response, "of course not." Deborah was clearly not amused, "you heard the Lieutenant. 'No'."

"I told you I don't give a fuck what that woman says. If _you _still think it's possible we have the wrong guy, I need to know now." I was bombarded by options and corresponding consequences, all of which begging for me to be smart; think survival. It was true, LaGuerta had overwhelming counter-evidence, and all I had were a few pictures from a projector. I was heavily outweighed. But every time I considered the rational response, I was reminded of my sister's current obsession; _mine_. I couldn't afford to lose this particular monster to Deborah. It might seem selfish, but I was thinking of my dark passenger, too.

"Yes. I believe I saw clear evidence of overlapping blood." My sister's eyes widened.

"So?" She started, "you coming, or not?" On the one hand; if I said no, I had Deborah barking up the wrong tree affording me only a precious few hours head-start on my exciting mysterious plaything. On the other, I could go with her and discover what I already knew; I was full of shit. "If you don't come with me, I'll just ask Masuka. I'm sure he'd jump at the chance to go if I don't wear a bra." I had no choice. Masuka would only draw the same conclusion he submitted in the report.

"Sure. After all, she was somebody's daughter." Deborah convulsed and spit a violent mist of saliva into my face before catching her erupting laugh. It turned out to be an overreaction, but I got the hint just the same.

"I'm sorry, bro. You're a terrible actor." If she only knew. "I'll be waiting in the van." Deborah grabbed a few things from her desk and darted toward the elevator. She looked back at me and tapped on her watch. I looked at mine, 1:24 P.M. I could come up with something in six minutes.

I returned to the lab with haste, searching for absolutely anything I could use to fabricate evidence of a second suspect, or anything that would give me some sort of an idea where to start. Unfortunately, the lab also happens to be the smallest room in the building. It didn't take long before the severity of the situation dawned on me. The room felt smaller, and it pulsated in concert with my lungs. For a moment, the room and I shared energy - almost connected; I was witnessing my tomb. The mind of a monster can bring itself to the most unusual of places in times of panic. In my case, I imagined myself rotating around on my stool and taking out a roll of plastic wrap from the top-left drawer of my work desk; the fingers of my left hand no doubt fumbling for the loose end of the plastic. Holding up the box and pulling the loose wrap from left to right across my face, I imagined that looking into the pulsating room through the translucent film was a window into a perverse dimension where all of my dark passenger's most compelling urges and desires dwell. Then, as if without purpose or sense, I forced the plastic wrap around my face, chaotically twisting and mangling the box around my head until I was satisfied the plastic would hold. After a few moments, each breath became smaller than the last. Or so I imagined.

In truth, I was feeling suffocated. Like I was incapable of taking in a full breath. But why was I panicked? I risked nothing by being wrong about my hypothesis apart from potentially losing my new friend to Deborah and the Miami Metro Police Department. Overall, the risk of exposing the dark passenger was obviously too great. But still, I was panicked. It seemed my dark passenger knew something I didn't, and he wasn't afraid to let me in on the dirty secret.

In the end, I had only my sister to convince. Lieutenant LaGuerta wouldn't easily buy random evidence suddenly emerging at the crime scene after Duly Dutiful Dexter conveniently approached her with the theory that same day. Besides, LaGuerta was also the only person who still believed the Bay Harbor Butcher was alive. Overall, it was best not to draw any peculiar attention from her, or anyone else for that matter. Luckily, my sister had tunnel vision. She already had every reason to practice extreme discretion. All she needed now was incentive, then I could be free to play catch with my mysterious friend. So long as I controlled every aspect of Deborah's faux investigation, I couldn't see the harm. Not exactly Harry approved, but I had a better chance of explaining myself to my own sister than a Lieutenant if I was discovered. I'd say I did it for her, and I was only trying to help.

The more I thought about it, the larger the lab grew and the less it pulsated until everything eventually settled and returned to normal. In my recovered state of clarity, I remembered to check my watch, 1:31 P.M. Fuck! Seven minutes wasted with nothing to show for it.

I searched around the lab once more for any sign of inspiration. Still nothing. I was going to have to think on my feet once we arrived at the scene. Which meant I needed to find a way to put myself into a killer's shoes. Not a daunting task considering my hobbies. As I knelt down to retrieve my on-site tools and chemicals bag, I caught a glimpse of my shoes. They were slightly scuffed on one side, and frayed on several corners. Suddenly, in an acute shock of genius, my eyebrow raised; I needed to buy new shoes!


	14. Chapter 14

When I was twelve, the Dark Passenger and myself weren't exactly on speaking terms. In fact, all I had when I closed my eyes to the world were nightmares of blood and morbidly violent screaming. Entire nights soaked in red under the soft glow of a full moon. Always the nightmare, _then_ the moon. That was the deal for so many years. Now it's the other way around. My, how things have changed.

But I was just a kid, innocent and ignorant, and I hadn't yet the nurturing of my foster father, Harry, to contend with the intoxicating influence of my then deaf and dumb Dark Passenger. As a result, I'd act on instinct and sheer perversion without premise or forewarning. I may not have established a dialogue with the unrestrained monster gnawing at my insides by the nights, but we did come to an understanding; it was Dexter's dark little secret. No matter how morbid the circumstances. ---

"I miss him!"

Deborah's cries resounded throughout the house after another domestic disturbance at casa de Morgan. I sank further into the sofa as I peered over to the dining table in the kitchen from time to time. At the table, my younger sister was crying profusely with Harry sitting beside her, attempting to calm her down. Back and forth from the TV to my damaged sister, I maintained a modest degree of curiosity. Perhaps too much. Harry noticed me. His lips were moving and he was holding Deborah, but his attention was fixed solely on me. I knew then that no one could escape Harry's direct scrutiny, much less a confused twelve year old.

The random pictures on the screen flashed and danced with little interest to me. After several more minutes of wailing, my sister's sobs mellowed into sniffles. Though the calm of the house was restored, it was replaced by a heavy gravity you could feel strongest in the pit of your stomach.

"First, you have to say good night to your brother," I vaguely discerned Harry's send-off before Deborah walked around the sofa and into my view. She stood slouched and infirm. Her cheeks reddened from the consistent wiping of her tears.

"Good night, Dexter." She moved closer and hugged me. I felt entirely too uncomfortable; out of my element; suspended from reality; out-of-body. Regardless, whatever I felt, I didn't want to release. If I was actually _feeling_, it was a cramped distortion of the traditional sense – far removed from what _feeling_ most likely feels like to normal people. Still, distortion or not, it was something.

Deborah retired into her room and closed the door behind her. Enter the heavy and authoritative foot steps of Harry, "Dexter, can we talk?" He stood above me. I shifted to one side and made room for him on the sofa. Even after he sat, I remained silent. "You've put me in a very tough situation, Dexter." Impossible. Harry couldn't have known what I'd done. I made sure there were no witnesses. It was silent and clean. Or so I thought. "Your sister loved that dog."

Fuck! I was caught. I don't know how, but Harry managed to see right through my disguise every time. "I know things are still complicated for you, but you have to start seeing the lines; especially with family. If you're blind – Son, you can't see the warning signs, and I can't let that happen."

I had to give in, it would save me time in the end, "I'm sorry. I tried, but I really, really couldn't take another bark from that damn dog."

Harry sighed, then recomposed himself, "I can try to understand that, Dex, but in the end, you're asking me to keep lying for you to our little girl. By telling her it was Daniel and not you--"

"It's Taniel."

Harry couldn't care less, "--I have to keep your secret, too. I refuse to lie to my daughter, and you should feel terrible for what you did to your sister. Then lying about it? I'm not raising you to lie to your sister, Dexter."

"I told you I was sorry." I felt my own voice rise with intensity. The pit of my stomach was only minutely relieved.

"Saying sorry to me is not going to put a smile on that girl's face." My foster father was keen to my weaknesses. Almost as if he had a Dexter-biometer. If there was life in me, Harry was the only person at the time who could find it. "You have ten minutes. Be honest with your little sister, Dexter. She's going to be the only family you have for the rest of your life."

My voice cowered, "she'll hate me."

"Only at first. She'll come to respect you." He patted me on the knee, "don't tell her I told you; she was gonna name him after you." Harry flashed me a fake, but reassuring smile, then stood up from the sofa.

"What do I say?" I fought the mild tremors building in the back of my throat.

"Just tell her what she needs to hear. You _are_ different, Dexter, but you're still her older brother." Even though I wasn't on the same level as Harry, I trusted his every word, "ten minutes, Dex. Or I tell her." Typical of Harry to drop the bomb at the end of a lecture. He walked away to leave me brooding in the thick nebula of anxiety I created around me. Eventually, my throat tensed up and I collapsed deeper into the couch, suffocating. ---

The faint purring of the engine in my van whirred calmly in the background as I tried to hold my attention on the immediate future. Deborah was in the driver seat, following my impromptu reminder to make a pit-stop along the way to the scene. It was by no means an easy sell, considering the time-constraints we were operating under, but my sister had to agree that performing an on-site Kastle-Meyer presumptive test _did_ require more hydrogen-peroxide than my tools and chemicals field bag had at the time; thanks to the van's open window, gravity and a distracted driver.

After I disposed of the hydrogen-peroxide, it was a simple process of elimination. There were a handful of stores between the station and the scene that sold said solution, but just one that also sold shoes. I had only to direct Deborah toward the latter. In the end, it was nothing but a simple game of chess; moving pawn after pawn in front of my darling sister Deborah without accidentally slipping a tell of my Bishop's plot to checkmate. But it wasn't my conscience, or lack thereof, that could betray my motives. According to Harry's Code, it's absolutely crucial to remain invisible. This includes leaving evidence. If I was going to leave prints at a murder scene singling out the shoe I was carrying in my field bag, I was going to take precautions.

We arrived on-site almost a half-hour after we left the station. I motioned toward the door's handle when the locks were suddenly activated. I knew it was too silent a ride with Deborah to be true,"Dex?" My sister sounded nervous, "can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

Deborah had trouble forming her words, "back in Maria's office. I didn't upset you did I? Because I feel fucking terrible." Deborah removed her eyes from the windshield to address me in spurts of emotional distress. Mild by recent standards, so I just raised my eyebrows in confusion. "Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how bad I've been feeling?"

For the life of me, I couldn't put my finger on my sister's concerns, but I figured I should respond quickly, "bad?" Well done, Dexter.

"Guess I shouldn't expect anything else from my oblivious brother, huh? Makes it easier to get away with shit, though." Deborah smiled, then the smile vanished, "but I'd still feel bad. So, I'm sorry. When Maria and I were having our pissing contest, I said some things that probably upset you. Completely forgot you were in the room. The truth is, bro, our losses were nothing compared to yours. I wanted you to know I understand that."

This was about loss. This was about Rita. Somehow, everything always came back down to Rita. If it wasn't for my sister, I'd often forget how to respond like a normal human being, but she reminded me of what I only vaguely understood; the grieving process wasn't over. Still, I was pretty fond of Deborah, "you're my sister. I understand."

"Really? So we're cool?"

I merely nodded, "we're cool." After a very brief hug, I motioned for the door handle once more and the lock was released. We exited the car in unison and headed up the walkway to the house of Amelia Gomez, our most recent closed-case victim bludgeoned to death with an aluminum baseball bat.

It was an interesting house. Interesting, in that it didn't have a garage, but it had automatic sprinklers. There was one large lawn in the front with three slices of cement cutting through the grass, browned by a layer of dead leaves fallen from an imposing tree beside the house. Two cement slices were devoted to the 'driveway', and one for the walkway. The windows were barred, but pleasantly so, and the patio itself couldn't even fit a small lawn chair. And again, no garage.

We made our way up the steps to the patio and the front door of Amelia's house. Deborah unlocked the door, and I basically slipped through the caution tape into a virtual piñata of possibilities. After we essentially burst into the belly of this colorful beast, I was overwhelmed with wild incentives and the allure of tasty treats. I was readily thrust into Dexter's playground – a proverbial sandbox of soap operas told through the most microscopic stains of DNA in the carpet fibers and equally elusive finger and foot prints in the soil. Each piece of evidence could tell a different and devilish story if only the appropriate writer was behind the words – if only I had that seductive red ink; I'd bathe my blade in it, then carve my fiction into the walls.

I didn't know what was worse at the time; the actual crime or the ones I imagined in my head. In truth, the ones I imagined felt intensely more vivid. Or maybe I was just drawing from experience. Regardless, a smile grew across my face only temporarily, and the world was none the wiser, "looks clean."

"She was certainly that." My poor sister investigated the Gomez murder the entire month the case was open. This included late nights and long weekends. I suppose it was fortunate for Deborah that Amelia was murdered several days before Rita. At least my sister had something to distract her when she wasn't helping me with Harrison. I know I did. In retrospect, I don't know how I would have lasted the past month if it weren't for Peter Olshansky and his passion for infidelity.

"Clean, I mean," she followed up, "all except for this section of the living room." Deborah stood at the foot of an adjacent wall facing the _not_ surprisingly small kitchen, "she was struck here." Game time, Dexter.

I carried my field bag over to the spatter of blood Amelia's brain sprayed onto the wall, intent on proving a theory I may or may not have imagined. Whatever the case, once I had a closer look, I was impressed with the size, control and distinction of the overall spatter. If only Jackson Pollock had this much discipline. I hastily strangled my right hand within a tight latex glove, raised my hand toward the top of the spatter and ever-so-gently dragged my fingers down over the tiny, yet perfectly maintained droplets. My eyes closed as I sensed the subtle nuances of texture undulation around the perimeters of each precious impact. It was as if I suddenly understood braille; reading the morbid writing on the walls.

"She was only twenty-seven," my sister started, "a fucking vet tech for some podunk animal hospital in town. One more year, she would have had her bachelors. I know what you're thinking; twenty-seven getting her bachelors, who the fuck cares?" Actually, I _was_ thinking something along those lines, "she would have been the first in her family to get a degree. Fucking shame."

I was never interested in the details of a victim's life, but I had a feeling Deborah was going to tell me anyway, "so she cheats on her boyfriend, he finds out, grabs his bat and..." I gestured to the large spatter of brain-blood in front of me.

Deborah slapped me across the back of my head, "she didn't cheat, asshole. But it's more fucked up than that anyway, the piece of shit doesn't even remember doing it." I tried to keep my focus on the crimson story developing in front of me, but my ears were too busy being subjected to the depressing woes coming from my sister, the backseat thinker. "I spent hours grinding the son of bitch, hoping he'd crack. He just cried, and cried, and cried, and cried. He never confessed why, though. I could tell there was something he wasn't spilling. So, if you're right about this second suspect--"

"It's what you can prove, Debs." Finally, I got to be the one interrupting, "don't get your hopes up just yet." I took one more good look at the spatter, placing emphasis on layered cohesion, impact angles and eye-balling source trajectories. Considering the projected spray was no more than two feet, and accounting for the missing flannel obstruction; I couldn't be absolutely sure, but there appeared to be a vague overlap signifying two separate angels of impact. The closer I inspected, the larger and more overwhelming the thrill of my own brilliance grew. My hands and legs began to shake. Honestly, I impressed even myself.

However, my silence and intense concentration must have garnered my sister's curiosity, "well?" And now I had to explain.

I cleared my throat, "again, don't get your hopes up, but it seems to me that we got ourselves two different sources." Deborah walked into my personal bubble with little objection from myself, then knelt down for a closer look, "in the report, Masuka said the spray shot from a source low to the ground. As if the victim was on her knees, but I don't think it started there. Look." I pointed to the large blotches of blood at the top of the spatter some five feet off the carpet, "the impact radii are only slightly larger than what they should be." Deborah flashed me a confused look, "any blood dropped or sprayed at an angle will present a circular stain at the point of impact, and a tail end as the rest of the blood is carried over with the momentum. We use the tail to measure the angle from a prospective source, judging by its length and width. If there's no angle, there's no tail."

"And..."

"So, some of the tails are too small to be consistent with the impact stains. Only slightly, of course."

"For fuck's sake, Dex."

"They're overlapped. The impact stains and the tails are from two different sources." Something still wasn't registering with her. I had to paint her a more colorful picture, "right now it seems like all of the blood is spraying up, right?"

"Right."

"Wrong. At the top – and this is purely assuming they're disparate parts -- the impacts have no angle. Which means they had to come from a source level to the spatter. Five or so feet."

Her eyes lit up, "Amelia Gomez was standing." I knew Deborah would catch on, "why aren't there any tails leading down, then?" She was right. If blood came from a higher source, gravity and momentum would carry the blood down and create south-bound tails.

"I'd say Mr. Flannel caught the rest of it. When he moved away, your victim was already on her knees. Hence the upward spray and the resulting overlap."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Dex. You're a goddamned genius." I couldn't lie, it felt good to be appreciated again.

"It's all circumstantial, anyway. I imagine that's why Masuka didn't put this in the report." My ego was satisfied enough, and I didn't mind giving Vince the benefit of the doubt.

"You think he knew?"

"He's a smart man. I wouldn't put it past him." Unfortunately, simply bringing validation to the overlap theory wasn't enough. If my sister was going to continue following the scent, she needed something concrete but with a hint of reasonable doubt. There wasn't much time.

I pulled open the front flap of my field bag and withdrew all the items necessary to perform an on-site Kastle-Meyer. "Looking around, I noticed a few stains on the walls. Some of them look like they were cleaned with glass cleaner. Probably nothing, but we should check it out anyway. Possible foreign DNA and whatnot." I handed Deborah some Q-tips and the hydrogen-peroxide, as well as ethanol and the reagent, "this is the phenolphthalin reagent. The stains are all dry so you'll need to lightly, and I do mean _lightly_, dab the Q-tip in ethanol first then swab the stain. Then you drop on a bit of the reagent. Wait thirty seconds or so. Add the hydrogen-peroxide, and voila! Have fun." Grabbing my field bag, I stood up with a controlled pace and attempted my escape.

"Wait! What the fuck are you doing?"

"I have to check the rest of the house. This won't be enough to sway the Lieutenant."

"Are you kidding? I'm surprised we found anything at all."

I insisted, "just swab the stains. You asked me for help, right? Let me help you." With an instinctual impulse, my throat fought off a freak spasm.

"Thanks, Dex." She turned her head toward the items I handed her and began picking them apart with her brain. I stood for a moment, shocked by the sudden tremor in the pit of my stomach that nearly caught my throat off guard. After a deep breath, I shook the alien nerves and retreated to the backyard of the house. Even standing in the sunlight, I still found it uncomfortable to breathe. Taking in longer breaths than before.

'Wake the fuck up!' The dark passenger was quick to shake me into coherence. At once, my pupils dilated and ideas fired instantaneously through my head. I needed something plausible – something believable that didn't carry much weight. Who knows, at that point, Deborah could have believed anything. But all I had at my disposal was an open lawn yard and a shaky wooden fence lined with bushes surrounding the house. I suppose I had only the one option.

I made my way toward the nearest fence and surveyed the bushes rooted at the base. Fortunately, the automatic sprinklers kept the soil soft enough for a clearer imprint. I planned to simply snap a few twigs, place a firm heel print obscured within one of the bushes, and leave a faint scrape of dirt on the top of the fence. It was certainly flimsy, but it would catch my sister's attention. If she brought it up to the Lieutenant, she'd only be turned down again. Knowing my sister, the rejection would most likely intensify her pursuit. Finally, in the end, I'd be handsomely rewarded with a clear and open road to the mysterious Gravedigger. After all, my sister had an enormously interesting and equally unsettling thought; what happens when he finds his identity? Judging by the pattern he's forming, I still had two more shows to catch before his first original act; the Skinner and Trinity. Given his obvious skill with a blade, I could only imagine what he would be capable of on his own – free from stealing the hard work of his superiors. If only. Unfortunately for him, the original artist wants his identity back. But since the damage has already been done, I suppose I could settle for a small glass slide and a drop of his best blood.

I removed the shoe from my field bag, bent down and reached into the bush. The snap of the twigs were infinitely louder than I expected, but my years of training reminded me that panic was capable of distorting the senses. Get it done quickly, but get it done right.

'Stop this, Dex.' Harry's voice echoed into my head, 'she'll never forgive you for this.'

"Relax. None of this is traceable back to me. They'll think I was just encouraging my depressed sister."

'Obstructing justice? Tampering with evidence? How long do you think you have before you get caught, son?'

"I'd have more time if you didn't distract me." I pushed the shoe firmly into the soft dirt.

'You're making a lot of foolish mistakes. I didn't want to say anything, but Rita died only a month ago, son. You don't see the connection?'

"This has nothing to do with Rita." I remembered to take a deep breath.

'You're lying to yourself, Dex. Worst of all, you're lying to your sister.' Harry reminded me time and time again. 'I didn't raise you to lie to our little girl.' And again.

My eyes twinged, "like father, like son. Right, Harry?" I stood up and prepared to scrape the sole of the shoe on the top of the fence.

Suddenly, I heard the crunch of ripe apple flesh pierce like a razor into my lungs. I turned immediately toward the source of the sound, "who's Harry?" Quinn stood several feet behind me with his black eye, a smug look and a smile that could buy an island. I was frozen with the shoe grasped tightly within my white knuckles. Quinn took another bite of his refreshing green apple.


	15. Chapter 15

'You're finished, Dex.'

Somehow, I could still hear the affirmative and righteous Harry nagging at me over my pounding heart.

'He's waiting.' Yeah, no shit. But I couldn't spend time being lectured about my lapse in judgment and complete disregard for the supreme and infallible Code – not to mention, being a fucking idiot. What was I thinking; a goddamn footprint? You're supposed to be the brilliant Dexter Morgan! The infamous Bay Harbor Butcher. Always lurking in the murky shadows of Miami's full Moon, striking without warning and disappearing back into the pitch blackness of social obscurity without so much as the crack of a dry leaf. The perfect monster; impossible to catch.

Who am I kidding? I had all the time I needed in jail to jerk off. THINK! Think, Dexter. Like Harry said, Quinn was waiting – and he was a confident little prick.

"I'm sorry?" I merely bought myself time to carefully, but naturally return the shoe to my bag. In case he hadn't seen me plant the evidence, I didn't want to seem uncomfortable. Thanks to my many years of devout dark defending, blending at the drop of a hat was akin to doing laundry with a complete stranger. I simply adapted, like the chameleon into a wall. Instant, and without notice. Especially from myself.

Fortunately, Quinn was still attempting to swallow his latest over-ambitious bite from his apple as I casually removed the latex glove and shoved it into my back pocket, "no, please. I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm interrupting you," the juices flowed off his chin. He was obviously toying with me, "but I am curious, if you don't mind."

Of course. "Of course not."

"This is a closed crime scene. And as of twenty minutes from now, it's a closed case." Quinn paused. I imagine for dramatic affect. "The fuck are you doing here?"

"HEY!" Obviously, being caught with my pants down was never bad enough. I had to be sodomized by a hot-poker, too. Figuratively speaking.

_ This_ was my hell. My impressionable sister flew in to save me just as my mask was beginning to slip, revealing the darkly dreamt Dexter Morgan, "don't fucking talk to my brother like that." She walked by Quinn and stood at my side, "got your back, bro." She smiled and put her arm around me. A little close for comfort, considering the fake print I left in the bushes behind her. I shifted my body slightly to the left in an attempt to fully conceal the planted evidence, "I called you to help us. Not to give Dexter shit." I would have been relieved, but I still had no idea what Quinn witnessed. Honest to Harry, the last thing I wanted on this planet was for Deborah to find out about my Dark Passenger. I felt the overwhelming urge for self-preservation prodding incessantly at the back of my neck. Inspired, not for my own sake, but for dear Deborah's. It reminded me of what it was like to be with Rita, and my similar desperation to keep her safe from the Dark Passenger. Ignorant and oblivious; those were the rules. My sister's mind was fragile enough. For Quinn to let the cat out of the bag now would cripple her; probably destroy her. I could never let that happen.

"Looks like you're doing fine on your own." He smiled in kind. Now, this was interesting. Quinn dropped the third-degree, just like he avoided explaining his black eye to Batista. Whatever he knew, he wasn't going to infect Deborah with it. In retrospect, Quinn had been looking after my sister more than I had recently. No. This was altogether different. This was personal.

"Quit the shit, Quinn. What did the LT say?" Deborah insisted.

With only slight hesitation, he took another bite of his half-eaten apple, "no go." Deborah slowly released her arm from my shoulders. Slowly, until it fell completely back to its natural position, "sorry."

Her voice was noticeably weaker than only a few seconds earlier. Noticeable, only to me, "what about the blood spatter, the overlap I told you about? I showed you the blood. You saw it; what Dexter discovered."

"Look. I'm just gonna say it. Whether or not you have the evidence, there's protocol. There's a strict system in place. The Lieutenant's got lieutenants. You know all of this."

"Just fucking have a point, would you?" Her arms had crossed.

"They have their man as far as they're concerned, and there's a shit-ton of evidence to back it up. Why _wouldn't_ they put this case to bed? It'll calm the families, that's for damn sure..." As much as his rambling was focused on my sister, every spare moment he had, his eyes connected with mine. There was a second, inaudible conversation with Dexter the Undaunted underlying his rambling, and my predatory ears were exquisitely keen to their dark advances.

My eyes twitched when Deborah released a large, but quick and silent pulse of air from her nostrils. I could read her signs too well at this point not to expect an emotional response, "so that's it, then?" Nothing. Not a goddamned thing.

She didn't bellow. She didn't cry. She didn't even fuss. Did my beloved sister, after all these years, finally get the better of doubtless Dexter? "Fuck! Fuck, goddammit! Fuck!" And there it was; little Mount St. Deborah erupted in all her tactless majesty. I suppose it could have been worse, in retrospect. Truth be told, I was relieved. Like I said, I know my sister too well.

She wrapped her hands around her forehead and pulled back on her hair. She seemed to apply more force whenever skin was accidentally allowed free from her grasp.

Typically, I don't find too many things humorous in the outside world, but my sister's callousness had a tendency to tickle me when I least expected it. So I laughed, but only slightly to myself and with calm and controlled confidence, considering the conditions, "you okay, Debs?" I had to let a half-smile linger.

Deborah's hands released from her head, and her arms fell at her sides, "I hoped. Maybe I was asking for too much, but I was hoping at least." A faint spasm in the eye lids, and a sudden deep breath of air; I could sense a tear was on the way. However, just before she was capable of crying, she covered her eyes and wiped away any potential tears before they could consume her and influence her state of mind. The last thing I needed, especially in Hell, was an erratic sister with an identity complex. That's when Lady Subtext whispered softly into my ear and coerced my limbs to cradle my unbalanced sister.

I held her. I hugged her. Maybe I even _felt_ her – at least, that's what I like to think. The rest of her breath released from her mouth and she grabbed my hand, "you were right, Dex. As usual." She turned to me, her glazed right eye wincing in the sun, "you okay?"

What the fuck? Am _I_ okay? That's a loaded question. "I'm fine." All of a sudden, none of this was such a concern for her? What was she getting at?

Deborah sighed, "I thought you needed this." She thought _I_ needed this? Up until now, I thought I was doing all of this for _her_ – apart from setting up a very secret and very necessary night between the Gravedigger and my Dark Passenger's twitching desires. What the fuck is going on?

'You did need this, Dexter.' My foster father's voice echoed through my skull, raising the tiny hairs on my neck to full mast.

'Not now, Harry.' I refocused on my sister, "I did," I couldn't believe the words myself, but as I looked at my sister, I felt an unfamiliar comfort outweigh any memory I've ever known. The Dark Passenger's voice, as well, was temporarily silenced, "I guess I did." Honesty. Hell, it's worked in the past. But I could tell my pitiful tales of woe were falling on deaf ears over at the Quinn camp. I noticed, however, he wasn't interested in speaking. He was observing. 'What are you looking for, Quinny?'

My sister attempted to console me with empty promises, "I guess we could still bring the --" but I didn't have the heart to let her.

"All the evidence is inadmissible without a warrant. It's obvious the Lieutenant's made up her mind." I knew a few things about text-book police work for a lab geek. Unfortunately, I had to use it to discredit my entire plan at its infancy and force myself and the hungry Dark Passenger into a corner, "to be honest, I thought I was helping _you_." My sister laughed.

From the promising and budding puppet-master, to the previously-played pity party, my role was changed before my eyes and without my explicit consent. Again, I had no choice but to adapt, even though it went against everything the monster inside me hungered for. The _thing_ with the undying appetite. Perhaps its eyes were bigger than its stomach this time around? I smiled.

"I love it when you smile. You should try doing it more," Deborah patted me on the shoulder, "anyway, wanna help me clean up? I made a fucking mess in there with all that ethan-pheno-peroxidal fucking hydro-whatever lame geek shit you gave me. I tried." Not the most elegant of sentences, but the point was made loud and clear. She emphasized it with a huge smile, then put on her sunglasses to deflect the scorching Miami sun, "one of them even turned pink. What the fuck do I know, right?"

Pink? Assuming she ran the test correctly, it's possible Deborah discovered human DNA hidden in one of the random stains on the wall. More of the victim's blood from a previous incident? It could be, and most likely is, absolutely nothing. Still, it never hurts to be thorough, "you did a good job. My little foul-mouthed lab assistant. Make sure you bag everything. Don't throw anything out."

"Figured you were use to it." She began back peddling, "you guys hungry? I'm thinkin' pork sandwiches."

"Gotta pass, babe. This wasn't a social call. More of an on-the-way type of thing." Quinn broke his silence to pass up a pork sandwich. I could have punched him again.

"Who doesn't love a late lunch? Dex, I drove you here, so you don't have a fucking excuse." Deborah chuckled, "seriously. When you two are done kissing, you're helping me clean up." After she disappeared back into the house, I was immediately reminded of the uncomfortable rumbling deep beneath my stomach. I was alone with Quinn, and I would much rather be eating a sandwich. After all, I was guilty of nothing as far as he was concerned.

"Now you know why we're here. Any more questions?" I could have just walked away, but I needed to be sure. I couldn't leave with more questions.

"That's incredible," Quinn finally tossed the browned core of his apple onto the grass, "how you could just do that."

"You might need to be more specific." I was cold and I didn't give a shit.

"Lie." He took several steps toward me and stood unwanted, well into my personal space. The Dark Passenger quivered with anticipation as we felt the intoxicating determination in his breath – for most people, it's the last breath they ever take, "I've only seen one other person lie the way you do, and her father was a serial killer," he took another precious breath, "how does it feel?" We were certainly on the same page.

I took a few steps back, "I have no fucking clue what you're talking about. Are you done harassing me?" In the end, it was my word against his. If he had no proof, what did I have to fear? He could throw a punch, and I'd take it. We'll have matching black eyes, and I'll share in his superficial pain. Maybe that would get him off my ass for a while.

"Harassing you? That's good shit. It's just a great fucking day, my friend." His arms swung open and he smiled, "I could hug you, but I won't. You know, I think I'll reconsider your sister's offer, too. I actually could go for some hot pork right about now."

Regrettably, I had to forgive him for his tasteless sexual innuendo toward my sister. He held the entire deck after all, "weren't you going somewhere?"

"I lied." Of course. I hadn't considered he'd lie about something so obvious. I'd been a fool, Harry's fool, and my actions have finally turned against me. I took one secret breath in and gently drifted off, "might want to cover that footprint before you leave. And maybe it's a little excessive, but I'd burn the shoe, too." He paused for a quick smile, "goddamn, I'm hungry! Aren't you? I'm glad I changed my mind, I'm tellin' ya."

I didn't notice him leave. ---

Who was I?

Who _am_ I?

What am I becoming?

Did it really take the last-minute advice of my dead foster father to shake me from my month long daze – my hallucination into reality? I soared high and virtually carefree on the gentle winds caused by Peter Olshansky's death. It kept me at a comfortable and familiar distance; well above society, Deborah, and even my children, with the chase. I lost myself in the thrill of being second-in-command to the Dark Passenger and his euphoric influence. He does, after all, have a way of adding excitement to my otherwise mundane life. But watching from above, seeing the larger picture, made me realize how important it is to live life in the moment. Like I did with Rita and the kids. Every single _perfect_ moment with them. In reality, I lost more than the Dark Passenger would ever let me admit.

In fact, I _lost._ Sure, I've had friends and family die, and it was all very sad, but I never truly felt loss until I lost Rita. I couldn't even rationalize myself in the house without her. What would I do? How could I raise the kids? Rita was the primary nurturer. Rita was the heart of the household and the family. Still, as a parent, and Rita's devoted husband, I was expected to fill those shoes and be crowned Mr. Mom? In the end, it was just too appealing to succumb to the surreal sensations of the monster. However wrong it may have been.

I've only seen my kids a handful of times the past four weeks, and I could only vaguely separate the memories we made into specific days. Only a few perhaps, then a torrential down-pour of guilt and despair as the memories of Peter Olshansky's wrong-doings forced their way back into my mind – plaguing me with a honeymoon strangler's sick and sadistic state of mind. I wanted to feel the crack of his sternum again. I wanted to feel the determination in his breath. I wanted his blood on my blade. If only.

God, I was obsessed. After a boy rioted at a high school, and the news reported on his father, Mr. Olshansky, I let go. Happily. I released Dexter Morgan to his sensational escape with little hesitation and handed the keys over to the ever-silent monster within. I was on vacation for an entire month at Desolate Desert Dexter's oasis, enjoying dancing in the moonlight and swimming in its rays.

I did manage, however, to visit the kids when I could, but I couldn't have known what a mistake it was to abandon them even for a day. I never considered the effect it would have on the kids, much less the psychological repercussions I would endure. Rita would have yelled at me, just as Deborah has so many times. For that matter, even Quinn got a word in on the issue. The world was trying to tell me something and I was too stubborn to listen. I only hope I didn't fuck things up. I hope I still had a chance to make things right. Honestly, if I could relive this past month, I'd live in every moment with my kids. Rita would have wanted it that way.

Now all I needed was to get through a late lunch and the rest of work without making any more mistakes. I needed Dexter Morgan to be Dexter Morgan again. I just needed to get back home.

I looked down at my watch, '3:15PM? Shit.'


	16. Chapter 16

What a complicated day.

I guess it's impossible to predict the cascading variables of a given day based on how well you fix and enjoy your breakfast. This morning specifically; the continuation of my proud and professional personality. I honestly believed I was ready to go back to work. Why wouldn't I? After the many hours of intense research, social scrutiny and behavioral notations, Peter Olshansky was at long last cornered and dealt with. I enjoyed the rapture of every sweet moment his naked body flexed tightly against his plastic tomb in response to seeing the sharpest cutting utensil money can buy in the hands of the most rabid demon hell can provide. After I dug a similar, this time larger, cutting utensil inches farther into his chaotically beating chest, the symptoms of Fear seemed to wane and disappear. Then I got to play with him a little more.

It was supposed to be a way back to my contentment. I wasn't supposed to notice the uncomfortable and suffocating hollow left in my uncharted _soul_ after Rita died. That was the vacancy reserved only for the Dark Passenger and his mountains of bloodied baggage during his indefinite stays. Imagine my surprise when I realized I was wrong. If the Dark Passenger inhabited half of my purpose, and Dexter Morgan was responsible for the other, what hollow was there left to speak of?

Enter Rita Bennett Morgan.

She quietly, and completely without warning, changed the trajectory of my entire life. Then, as suddenly as she formed the deepest and most colorful crater on Dexter's pale moon, she was gone. Funny thing about craters; if they're big enough, they remain long after the initial impact – the topography ever-changed. My hollow. And whenever I'm not thinking about the enticing and nostril flaring Peter Olshansky, or my new mysterious necrophilic friend, I subconsciously stumble upon the smallest breadcrumbs left in the dreary halls of my mind. Whoever left them knows me better than I do, because the trail always leads back to Rita and the kids.

So with respect, I bent down to pick up the final breadcrumb and arose from the foot of my old front door. Why was I there this particular night? What brought me _here_ outside of my normal routine? Something inside me was certain of the answers. I've become so accustom to a completely different feeling. Almost opposite. This felt absolutely right. There was only one thing left to do. I knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again.

After a brief silence, the door jams clicked, locks were released, and the door cracked open slowly, revealing a tired and horrendous old woman dressed in her tacky silk robe from the better part of the 1970's I'd twice forgotten. In her left hand, a half-full glass of chianti shook and eventually settled, "you're late." Her raspy voice did little to help the overall image.

I didn't expect a hero's welcome from Gail. Far from it. Though all things considered, this _was_ an improvement. Something was obviously wrong. "Well, Gail, the Lieutenant gave me an early day. You knew I was coming. I left you a message at four." I remember clearly. It was just after my late lunch with Deborah and Quinn. Luckily, Quinn only managed to make eating my favorite pork sandwich generally uncomfortable and uneasy. But that was it. No major bombs dropped. No damaging secrets revealed. Quinn was satisfied simply knowing where to point out dirt on the immaculate Dexter Morgan's lapelle. Perhaps the phrase, 'dodging a bullet' would be putting it lightly. At least I was given a second chance in my professional life.

"I don't know what to tell you. They're in bed. Sleeping."

I immediately looked down at my watch, '7:36PM?' The kids were usually in bed by nine on the weekends, "but it's only seven-thirty."

She shrugged her shoulders, "something came up, and the kids need to be awake early."

No. Not this bullshit. Not now. After everything I've been through, Gail was not going to be the last obstacle between me and my kids. I had every right to see them, and I was going to do everything I could to do right by Rita and our family. But as it happens, Gail took my four o'clock message as a sort of warning. In other words, I gave the conniving bitch three hours to find some way to keep me from my own kids. It was the only logical conclusion.

In a freak impulse, I forced open the door, and pushed Gail to the side. Part of her red wine sloshed and spilled clumsily onto her hideous robe. If only I had the time, I could have stopped to appreciate the look on her stupid face as the wine settled into the silky fibers.

But my kids needed me more than Gail needed another witness to her slow degrade into self-destruction. So I did what any dignified father of three would do; I continued my desperate intrusion into my own home. And if you've ever ridden a bike more than once, you'd understand how easy it was to make it from the front door to my kids' room decades before the sloshed Gail could react to the shimmering red stains on her right shoulder. I stopped at their door and knocked. By now, Gail was probably on her way to stop me, so I promptly asked for my kids' forgiveness then opened the door.

Sleeping.

Cody and Astor, both sleeping. They wouldn't be sleeping before eight on a weekend if Gail hadn't promised them _something_ worth while. After I understood that, who was I to interfere with a good time? What kind of parent would I be? I walked in and stood at the side of their beds. Whether for three seconds, or three hours, I watched them sleep. Silent. Dreaming, perhaps? I hope.

"Dexter," my name whispered at me from a coarse and masculine voice, "what the..." the voice cut itself off. Gail was urgently gesturing me out of the room from the doorway. I had no choice but to oblige her. She closed the door behind me silently, "what the fuck are you doing? They're _sleeping_." She did tell me so.

And she continued to tell me so all the way back to the front door. I said nothing. After all, it wasn't my place. If the kids were happy, why shouldn't I be? That's what a good parent would believe, right? That's how Rita must have felt every day.

So why do I feel something's wrong?

"I'm sorry." I apologized outwardly to Gail. I'm not sure why. It's possible I was talking to myself.

"Sorry?" She then stumbled over her words. Common for a drunk, but it didn't have the cadence of an inebriated person. I knew this rhythm all too well; this was disdain, "you don't have a fucking clue what you're sorry about, Dexter. Not. One. Fucking. Clue." Gail quickly breathed in and recomposed herself, "the kids are excited about tomorrow. _Your_ kids. Please, for once. Do the right thing and leave them be." She attempted to close the door. Unfortunately, my foot was in the way.

The door reopened. I could tell, after our eyes met, she'd already strung together a list of words designed to boar deep into my heart and leave me weak and restless. I was overwhelmingly compelled to outdo anything she could possibly come up with, "those are my kids – _our_ kids," I left caution to the wind and trusted whatever was in me to speak, "frankly, Gail, I couldn't give a fantastic fuck if you like me or not. I hardly need your approval to see my kids. Not when I have something so much better. Something you never had, actually." I left a short pause in the air, but she didn't break the silence. I could tell immediately that she wouldn't. No. She was listening, and she was hurting. "Have a good night, Gail." I couldn't continue. I had her attention, and I felt I proved my point. What's more, I could see a pain in her eyes that made sense deep inside me. Somewhere at the pit of my stomach. I couldn't hurt her without feeling it myself.

I started to walk back from the door and onto the front lawn where several of Cody's toys littered the grass; a bike, a pogo-stick, and some of his old plastic shovels resting on a mound of soft dirt. They reminded me of Sunday mornings, when I used to live care-free and in the moment with him and Astor. By now, each toy would have a story; a series of events leading to where they finally lay. I might even hear laughter. My name in cheery little voices. I'd have purpose.

Therefore, I should be happy that they're asleep, resting their eager inner-child for tomorrow's plans, whatever they may be. So why do I feel something's wrong?

I'm not there.

No more. 'Sorry Gail,' I thought to myself, standing amidst the sweltering Miami musk. This was simply a fight I wasn't going to lose, and regardless of how Gail was responding to her daughter's death, I _had_ to be there. Which meant I had to take matters into my own hands once again. Finally! A familiar feeling.

As I walked from the front gate toward my car parked on the street, I happened across Gail's new Hyundai nestled complacently on my driveway. I dragged my fingers along its perfectly waxed hood as I danced across to the driver-side door. My knees bent and I slipped my hand under the front-left wheel well. When I pulled my hand back, I held a magnetic box containing Gail's spare car key. 'Some things still don't change.'

I opened the front door, and pulled a handle at the base of the front seat. The hood popped open. With controlled haste and superior ease of execution, I connected one of the battery's cables to the ignition fuse, effectively disabling the car from starting. Such a completely harmless, untraceable and cheap problem to fix. I almost felt like I was being too easy on Gail.

Then I heard the laughter.


	17. Chapter 17

**To everyone who has been following "The Gravedigger" since I started it, and those who just started reading it, thank you for your interest and incredibly kind reviews. I never imagined so many people would enjoy my writing, as this is the first time I've put my work out for other people to enjoy. I apologize that this chapter took so long to submit. Considering the months that have passed, I only spent three or four days actually working on it, so it probably won't be all that great. Disclaimer aside, if you enjoy this chapter, I'll try to bust one or two more out before the season 5 premier. After which, I can't imagine anyone would want to continue reading my alternate story-line. Regardless, I do hope you enjoy it. Thanks again, everyone!**

Sun rise.

Naturally, the concept makes my skin crawl. Some people believe that light casts a shadow by driving out the forces of darkness; shedding truth on the unknown wherever its warm embrace decides to cuddle. It's acceptable, if not within the boundaries of desperation, that I'd ever consider being part of this phenomenon considering just how often I'm required to remain hidden; casting no shadows, leaving no traces. In the end, I can certainly manage the sultry south Atlantic sun, but the idea that I'm some fourteen hours away from any touchstone familiar to my dark passenger quivers my nerves and sets my teeth to chatter. Yet, I'm calm. Resolute and at peace with myself. Determined, even, to make things right. No matter the hour.

That's not to say I can't find enjoyment during normal people hours, too. Far from it. Taking my _Slice of Life_ out on the open seas to the delight of the afternoon grimace is one of the few past-times I have left that doesn't involve prepping a spillway for five to seven quarts of blood and standing bowels-deep in an oversized grocery bag. It's a time and place I can go to escape from myself and clear my mind. Where I can be free from any subconscious itch. Ironically, it's when every shadow cowers and recedes from the landscape that the dark passenger is the most hidden. Go figure.

But these shouldn't be the concerns of a respectable father of three. Surly, Daddy Daytime Dexter has more pressing things on his mind.

"Fu- Effing, eff! Harrison spit up again," Deborah exclaimed from the passenger seat of my van, "awe, it's a good one, too!" She then followed it up with random, nonsensical cooing. She sounded like an idiot, but Harrison seemed truly taken by it. I'll have to work with him on that later. I looked in the rear view mirror as Deborah gently removed the saliva from Harrison's face with his 'I LOVE MOMMY' bib.

"Here!" With one free hand, and both eyes on the road, I quickly attempted to navigate the front compartment for spare napkins. Thanks to my sister's undying love for burritos and her bottomless stomach, it wasn't difficult to randomly come across some form of sanitary fabric, "use this." After a few moments, I could sense an uncomfortable lack of motion from the passenger seat. My sister was still. I peered over, her head was lowered.

'Pay attention to the road, Dexter,' Harry was always quick to shake me from any human interaction looming in that distant, chaotic horizon, 'that steering wheel is about the only thing you have any control of anymore.'

"I'm sorry, Dex. Fuck." Deborah muttered with a melancholy serenity, but she was certain to make it sound contemptible.

"Really, Debs, it's fine. Besides, I'm sick of seeing my baby sister so sad." I extended my hand to cradle Deborah's face and gently squeezed, pursing her face gently into an abstract version of herself. An uglier version. After I released, her frown was gone. Replaced by a glaring sneer.

"Maybe you don't say sh-stuff, but your actions sure as heck do." And maybe my sister wildly curses like a drunken sailor, but when she censors herself around Harrison, she sounds ridiculous.

"Debs?"

"Why? Why don't you talk about anything with me? I'm not Quinn. I'm not Maria, Angel or your geeky butt-buddy, Vince. I'm your sister, for god's sake. And it's not exactly like I'm asking you to give up a fuckin' arm. Jesus." Her breathing pattern and voice grew with intensity. And as much as I wanted to explain to her the complex underpinnings of my dark passenger's deranged dilemma, I couldn't. Not only because Harrison was in the car, but we were only five minutes away from my old house. The house my kids and I shared with Mommy. Still, Harry was right. The van was the only thing I had any control over anymore. So I pulled over.

"Whoa," Deborah exclaimed sarcastically, "watch out. Big brother's getting serious, now."

I usually don't put up with my sister's games. Today was no exception, "Debs, you know it's been over a month since we spent time as a family. I need you to be strong right now. For me and the kids. We will talk, though. I promise." When the words left my mouth, I felt a fullness rush through my stomach. I felt whole. Granting my sister some sense of reassurance not only benefited me, but it felt right. I leaned over and hugged my sister.

"You're right. I'm being selfish. I fuckin' hate that you know me so well." She wiped her eyes, but stopped to notice I hadn't moved, "go! I don't want to be late!"

"Are you sure?"

"Go! Goddammit, before I punch you."

I smiled, turned the keys to the ignition, and pulled back onto the road. That unforgiving road; cold and barren. As I held down on the gas pedal, looking back into the rear-view mirror with Deborah's attention set firmly back on Harrison, I could only think of myself.

What have I done?

The sun was indeed out and it shone brightly on the Dark Avenger. His shadow was deeply pronounced and his traces-left were numerous. How did it come to this? I always took the necessary precautions and followed the code as best I could. 'As best I could?' I can hardly believe that myself. I've killed an innocent man. I involved myself with Arthur Mitchell's family. I've continuously lied to the people I care about. I've made persistent enemies at work. Somewhere along the way, I even managed to cause the death of the only person I ever felt anything for. Recently, I've been careless. Drunken black-outs. Bar fights with police officers. Planting fake evidence. Losing leverage over Quinn. No, my friends, Dexter Morgan couldn't shine any brighter.

At least for now, I had the chance to make things right in the most important aspect of my life. My kids were waiting for me. Besides, I felt pretty sure I was their last hope.

"Uh oh," Deborah noticed the same thing I expected as we approached the house, "what the fuh?" A confident smile grew across my face as I parked the van, and with great relish, pulled up on the emergency brake.

"Wait here." I exited the van and walked closer to my old drive-way where a greatly frustrated Gail was standing next to a greatly incapacitated Hyundai 'sharing words' with a tow-truck driver with one foot on the escape. The kids were sitting against the gate festooned with brightly colored back packs, stooped and hopeless. Cody was the first to notice me.

"Dexter!" Cody's eyes were alight as he ran over to me. Astor remained by the gate.

"Hey buddy." I met him half-way and knelt in for the landing hug.

With his arms wrapped around my neck, he spoke into my ear, "Astor didn't think so, but I knew you'd save us." It was apparent Cody had developed an even tighter grip as the weeks passed. I responded in kind.

"Sorry I'm late." I flashed him the saddest face I could muster, "how's my young sailor?"

"Better now. Grandma Gail smells like a trash can." I laughed and ran my hand through Cody's soft hair, "does this mean we're still going to the fair?"

"The fair..." I tailed off to avoid making it sound like a question, "is exactly where myself, Harrison, _and_ aunt Deborah are taking you!" Honestly, right now I could go anywhere with my kids and enjoy every last minute, but the fair was definitely going to complicate matters. All the people. Greasy food. Crowded streets. Expensive useless crap. I hate the fair.

Cody continued, "that's good. After Grandma's car broke, she almost asked Elliot to take us. But I told her not to." Elliot; next door neighbor and resident scum bag. He took advantage of my beautiful bride on Thanksgiving, of all hallmark days. Some 'thanks', suffice it to say, shouldn't be given. Still, I wasn't too worried about him. After all, we already _talked _it out.

Naturally, I couldn't help but smile, "you did?" He only nodded as the expression on his face fell remarkably sullen, "Cody?"

A tear trailed down his cheek and I quickly smudged it with my thumb, "I didn't like the way he looked at mom." My Rita.

My smile disappeared, "when?"

"Thanksgiving."

I took a moment, "look at me, Cody." He stared deep into my eyes. His tears stopped, "he won't be bothering us anymore." I held him close. Apparently, promises were part of my new bag of tricks, but these felt infinitely less burdening and far more promising, for lack of a better word. I stood up from Cody to make myself a little more obvious to Astor, who was still insistent on ignoring me. Unfortunately, this also drew the attention of the shrew who was chewing off the head of the poor tow-truck driver. She gestured me over to their conversation on the drive-way. I was hesitant, but there was really no choice in the matter, "sorry Cody. Looks like I have to have a little chat with Grandma. See ya on the other side!" Cody smiled.

I walked up to Gail, playfully optimistic, "what's the problem?" I stood for a moment to survey the situation, "looks like a battery problem." At least I found an opportunity to help.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I was impressed. Gail usually had the decency to berate me in private. The tow-truck driver, Gregg, with two G's as his embroidered name tag suggested, was obviously put off.

"Ma'am," he began, "I'm just gonna draw up the paper-work in the truck. It'll only take a few minutes."

"Then do it! You're gonna do it anyway." The tow-truck driver vanished and Gail's demon gaze was refocused on me, "can you believe it? The kids were excited about going to the Calle Ocho fair today, but the one person who's job it is to know how to fix cars; who's called out to help start cars for a living, can't fix my goddamn car!"

"He's just a tow-truck driver." I insisted.

"And real convenient having the infallible Dexter Morgan show up just in time to save the day. Who should I thank? You, or your sister for reminding you that you have kids?" Easy Gail. Under the circumstances, Harry's code is ripe for amending, "I know you had something to do with this. It's way too convenient." I had to give the old bag credit for her keen common sense, which is thankfully not too common. Still, a hungry rat can find even the smallest bread crumbs once in a while.

"Honestly Gail," I smirked, "I wish I could take credit for this. As it happens, I was just out to lunch with my sister and thought I'd poke my head in. I'd call that being lucky." I looked back at Deborah who remained standing by the van. She waved back at us. "They're my kids, Gail. We've talked about this. I love them more than you know. If Rita was still alive, she would tell you-" Gail's hand flew with exact precision and purpose, further weighted by oceans of anger and emotion, and struck me across the face. I suppose the dark passenger could have easily stepped in and blocked her hand before it landed, but I may have also crossed the line.

She didn't mutter a word. She didn't draw a breath. She merely returned to the tow-truck driver intent on clearing the drive-way. It would appear that leaving may be the nicest thing I've done for Gail in some time. I obliged our unspoken agreement and made my way back to Cody and Astor who were now helping Deborah load a large cooler into the van.

"Everything alright?" My sister approached me, her oversized glasses covering half of her face. She pulled aside several strands of hair from her view, "Cody looked surprised to see me, and Astor's still upset."

"She's got a lot of her mom in her."

"Dex," she began annoyed, "Cody said Gail was supposed to take them to Calle Ocho. How did you know about this?" In truth, I expected my sister to put two and two together. I also took a gamble that her dice would land on my number.

"Don't worry. I didn't do anything drastic."

"Dexter!" Her mouth dropped.

"Calm down, Debs. Gail and her car will be fine. But I need my kids, and they need me. Please come with us. I'm sure Astor would appreciate another person with girl parts in the van. Please?" I smiled. It took a few slight nudges on her shoulder before my sister's open mouth pulled at the corners and widened into a smirk.

"It's like I don't know you anymore, bro. You're right, though. You need to be with your kids. Not to mention, Gail's been pissing me off, too."

"There's the sis I love."

It was a short walk back to the van where Astor was already securely fastened next to Harrison. Cody left his seat to update Deborah and me on the van situation, "everything's loaded! I checked the cooler in the back. It was kind of loose, so I tied it down with some rope. I used the knot you taught me, Dex. It's not going anywhere."

"That's my sailor. You ready?"

"Yep!"

I rested my hand on Cody's head as we walked back to the van. Aside from Astor's resistance, I was beginning to feel like part of a family again. At times like these, I often question my nightly preoccupations - my moonlight metamorphosis. In fact, with each enemy I made these past few months, I found them easier to ignore and cast aside. Why couldn't my dark passenger be one of them? Why couldn't I always be simply Dexter Morgan. Proud father. Loving brother. Grieving widower. Any semblance of normalcy.

"Dexter!" I turned around to the great displeasure of seeing Elliot walking sternly toward me.

I pulled Deborah to the side, "put Cody in the car, I'll be with you in a minute."

"Dex?"

"What did I say?" I had no time to explain, and Deborah was quick to understand. I intercepted Elliot well before the kids had a chance to see him approaching, "hello, Elliot. How's the jaw?" I didn't spend too much time looking the man over, but upon first glance, even the most elementary observer could tell Elliot was attempting to overcome some level of trauma.

"I've been better. How's Rita. The kids?" Straight for the jugular. It took everything I had not to curl my fingers into a fist. Instead, I found solace in simple observation. He looked terrible, a train-wreck as they say. Once again, I could only think of myself. Was this how the world was supposed to see Dexter Morgan? Broken down and decrepit. A weak shell of a man? Hardly.

"Stay the fuck away from my family, Elliot. I'm not going to tell you again." I decided quickly not to engage him further, but rather return to my children where I belonged; back to the van, the back packs, the large cooler full of cold sandwiches and sodas, headed for a fun-filled day at the goddamned Calle Ocho fair. All things considered, it was a better decision.

"It's your fault they cry at night, y'know." Elliot managed to push his proverbial blade a few more inches deeper into my spine, fishing for a response. He was desperate, and I nearly took the bait but I immediately reminded myself of Cody and his reaction to my almost heroic arrival only a few minutes earlier. As I opened the door to the driver seat, it didn't matter anymore whether Elliot was continuing to spill his verbal garbage onto the lawn or not. I just remembered Cody's elation; his laughter. Only a year or so earlier, it wouldn't have occurred to me how important it would be to hear my children laugh. Now, it fuels my ambition. I heard the laughter in my head as I slept the night before - as I sabotaged Gail's car. That has to mean something.

Please, let this be a better day.


	18. Chapter 18

**Hey everyone! It's been quite a while since I updated. Trust me, I know. I'd like to re-thank all of you who first read my 17 chapter story that stopped out of nowhere. Originally it was excused as insufficient to the ongoing story of the HBO drama, which, two years later, has only proved to this writer as a waste of time. (Sorry, if you've enjoyed the show.) In recent months, I've received a few reviews still from my old story and have been dabbling about to keep it going. I didn't think I'd upload (much less remember how. This website is confusing!) But I finally realized I should finish it. I've begun many projects since I stopped writing The Gravedigger. None have been read. None have finished. I continue The Gravedigger not just because 2 reviews deem in necessary (I'd write for myself if necessary), but because I feel the need to finish something I've started. Also, because I personally believe the television show has been weak and uninspired since season 4. In the following chapter, I may take a few cheap shots at the seasons past. As well as address a few of the recent review's critiques (thank you!) In the end, it's of no concern to me whether I should continue or not. I just hope you enjoy it for what it is while I see this through to the end. The first project of it's kind in my library. I appreciate that those who were familiar with the story years back might be out of the loop come this update. But in the interest of the story's integrity, I decided to continue on as if I'd updated a few days later. It's more or less everything I would have posted in 2010...only...not...thank you again!**

A scream. Just a single scream resonates more comfortably than a warm embrace. If I didn't know any better, though I usually do, I'd say it was my cradle; flanked by feathers and downy embankments. But many of them; all at once, as if a playback of the Dark Passenger's favorite moments overlapped into harmonious dissonance, was nearly tearfully overwhelming. Screams. The mere memories they evoke tickle me villainously - and at that moment, I could scarcely discern the difference between screams of life, and screams _for_ life. In the end, what conceivable difference is there? When you've stood where I've stood. Heard what I've heard. Bent down and tied the same laces. Cooked the same eggs. Sliced the same blood oranges. Howled at the same red moon. Faced the same familiar faces, and lied more passionately to them than any lawyer, politician, and thief could fathom with a weakly muttered, 'hello.' In the end, I'm an artisan of a peculiar craft. A blacksmith of horror. I fashion my peculiar wares for a living. Refining them to a razor sharp edge and polished sheen - the faces of the victims and their misdoings reflected with ineffable judiciousness. They pierce. Believe me; they pierce. So clean, in fact, the slippery crimson often won't follow. Each one uniquely qualified as a masterpiece. To me, a scream is hardly the reverberation of pressured air pushed from our lungs and trachea, forced through the esophagus and against the larynx, and expelled orally as an audible cry. It's more. Laughably so much more. The air pressure carries with it the pain of the individual...

...their suffering. My catharsis.

Oh, and if I could have only indulged that happy thought a few moments longer, I'd be a few moments happier than I was. Instead, Harrison's own screams punctured my ear drums. I halted the stroller and found personal audience with my little innocent Harrison, "shh. It's okay," at least there's one person on this planet that finds me comforting, "everything's okay, buddy." His own caterwauling ceased. Here, objective reality was met with Dexter's reality. I turned my attention from my son to the goings-on of the people around me - and there were many. Adults. Men and women. Children. All screaming with glee. Their harnessed bodies flailing through the sky. Some in circular motions. Others back and forth. They call them rides. Amusing rides. Rides for amusement. Indeed, a park of them. To be honest, I smirked. I felt no connection, but the term 'amusement park' suddenly made a kind of eerie sense to me. As if I were filching the emotions of a normal human being. Gleaning and sifting - thumbing through their sentimental rolodex. This only made the screaming more frustrating. No. These were not the screams that have made literal impressions against the anvils in my ears, echoed like seashells through time, and lulled me into deep sleep. These were wholly unusual. Yet at the same time, I discovered a faint trace of jealousy in this diminutive obsession. These were the screams I could never wish to evoke for myself. But hopefully Harrison might make use of them one day. And only them. Essentially, this was a redefinition of a fact; a nature of a monster. And it took this place, of all places, to rear its cunning head. I could honestly say, as with Harrison's birth, the laughter of Cody and Astor, or any waking moment with Rita, this too was a favorite moment of mine. Everything else about the Calle Ocho Fair, from the repulsive food to the equally repulsive people who ate it, was effortlessly shit.

And so there we were: the happy family. I wanted so badly to be there as much as my sarcasm hollers for attention. Make no mistake about it, I love my children, and my sister can be tolerable at best, but the drive here felt like it took a short life time. If I were to define it, be the obsessive monster that I am - and I do, - I'd say the journey to the Calle Ocho Fair might as well have taken two years, nine months, and twenty days. So long, in fact, others may have easily forgotten where they were headed. The reason they followed the road in the first place. Veered from the road salt. Lost interest. But not me. My course is direct. True. Absolute. Suspended through time. Though my disdain for fairs and the communes they attract is well documented, I've learned a thing or two about sacrifice. Everything from the most trivial of affairs (Quinn's asides aside,) to quelling the welling _anxiety_ that's since filled the Rita-sized hole in my life. I braved this specific commune for my children, subjecting them to benign screams hoping such an act might drive them toward normalcy. Who knows? Maybe I could tag along?

Harrison cried once more. "Debs." I called to my sister. Her attention glued to the various swinging flesh-bags of various sizes.

"Dex," she was annoyed, "what?"

She was carrying Harrison's goodie bag around her right shoulder. Within it, a pacifier to calm my colicky kid, "a little help?" Did I really need to imply further? My son was screaming. Deborah stopped the family caravan to consult the goodies, sifting and contorting, like searching for her keys in the dark abyss of one of her bags with the insignia "LV" on them. I might have laughed at the coincidence had she not produced the pacifier so quickly.

"It's getting old, Dex." She asked as if the two of us were already engaged in some telepathic debate.

Harrison's lips curled meekly around the gelatinous neon green octopus I landed in his mouth, "what's getting old?"

"Debs. You've never called me Debs before." A point well made, "Deb. Deborah. Little bitch sister from hell, but never Debs." Small point, but still pointy.

"Okay." And so why was I bothered with it?

"It's just not like you," she started, and oh, did she have more to extrapolate, "I realize a lot has happened," she not too subtly gestured to the kids, "and I've also had my situations." Referring, of course, to the late Detective Frank Lundy of Trinity fame, the copy-cat Ice Truck Killing, as well the _unfortunate_ Sgt. Doakes' misnomer. "Which I get, probably fu-messed with you, quite a bit."

I nodded. If only to move the story along.

"But you've always kept it straight with me."

"Deb." I tried.

"No, dammit, listen to me," her emotions talking now, "we're family. You understand? We've been through a lot. We have to keep shit straight. Otherwise..." My kids were there, but by the glare of her eyes, that was a non-issue.

Was she done? "Okay." I was sorry. Truly.

"Debs creeps me out." She took a breath. "I'm sorry, it's been bugging me for a while. Just had to get it off my chest."

"Didn't have much on it to begin with."

"Dexter!" She slapped me. I expected it, so her hand landed cleanly. In times of emotional nonsense, I can always be trusted to bring things back to Earth, "don't talk like that around your kids." Sure. Now my kids have ears.

I looked up. The sky was blanketed with birds.

Up ahead, as the family caravan continued through the cacophony of human auditory waste, I bore witness to both interesting and horrific things. Be they the oddly humorous body art on the innocents' faces, or the oddly unnecessary body piercings of those behind the low counters; Carnies, they were once called. As we waded through the traffic, I caught glimpses of my children's faces. Harrison, wide-eyed, like a vacuum, sucked in his environment without prejudice. Cody smiled, though where his eyes were set remained a mystery. Astor, ever the stalwart cynic, did her best to subdue her innate childish interests in lieu of fostering some unfortunate gloom. Not a word spoken. My sister propped up her reputation on proud shoulders the entire way. She engaged my children; her niece and nephews. No matter how banal, Deborah managed to catch their attention. It wasn't until after our time at the fair, was it clear to me how little I was involved.

Clenched within her ogre hands, my sister rendered a description of every minor or major attraction along our path. One such attraction caught my attention, the Ceiba Tree. An organism of formidable stature, the Ceiba Tree stood stout long enough to acquire legend. As the dutiful Deborah pointed out, "the Ceiba tree can grow to seventy meters or more. The trunk is massive, and often expands to hold a huge canopy - which is the top of a tree. Or the hundreds of little branches that conceal the sky." Well that part didn't necessarily matter. She continued, "while not a native of Miami, the Ceiba tree takes its roots - no pun intended," she waited for a visceral response from my kids. Probably a laugh. Nothing. Deborah quickly cleared her throat, "takes its roots in pre-Columbian Mesoamerica." Her confidence in the words she was speaking began to diminish, "in particular that of the Mayan civilizations-Dexter, what the fuck?"

"Deb." I gestured to the little ones, "really?"

She seemed in agreement. She mouthed, 'fuck me, right?' flashed me a smile and continued with the tour, "dah dah, daaaah, fuuuuuck meeee," her index finger followed hastily along several lines of text, "here we go; where the Mayan civilizations believed the trunk of the Ceiba tree was directly connected to the underworld." In light of the dark meaning, Deborah let out a ghostly howl. It didn't take. "Today, the Ceiba tree, with its tremendous roots, holds meaning for many Spanish cultures. Most notably, the Cuban culture." Imagine that, in the heart of Miami, something beats.

Deborah relaxed her eyes from the pamphlet to witness the tree herself before we passed it, "huh," she started, "apart from the Virgin Mary," a statue positioned just south of the tree, "doesn't look like that big a deal." As I walked by, I noticed a bird's nest nestled between several of the branches. Surrounding the tree was an aura of life. A culture of reason. No matter how irrational, lives were lost and the families of those lost found solace in the myth of these trees. This was their connection to the dead - their blood slide; something my Dark Passenger might argue a tree wholly unnecessary. Yet fifteen feet up and between its high eager branches, the little chirps of baby chicks resonated against the much louder trebles and basses of the fair. Life from death. The beginning at the end. A poetic notion not soon lost on Dear Diary Dexter. A moment longer, I lingered on the thought. This too was a notion not lost on my new friend, the Gravedigger. I smiled.

"Finally found something that interests you here, Dex?"

I wiped the smile from my face, but not before monopolizing on its potential poignancy, "never knew how much I might enjoy it with my family." The words had a bitter snail-trail-like effect on my tongue. The irony was I was sincere, but the execution must have made me sound sarcastic and ridiculous.

Deborah chuckled while giving me a suspicious glance, "we're glad we're here, too, Dex."

Deborah continued, "Ceiba is the name of a genus of many species of large trees found in tropical, blah blah blaaaaahs." My sister started leafing through the fair's brochure, "yada yada yada. Dear God, Dex, why did we come here?"

Why _did_ we come here? Apart from the aforementioned reasons, why were we here? What brought us here? More importantly, how did I get here? There was a time in my life I thought I had myself figured out. I was content in my own skin. I followed a code. I responded to the blood moon. I steeped in its shadows. Me, Myself, I, and the Dark Passenger. During those times, unless I was following the seductive scent of a pending kill, I'd never find myself entrenched in the glee of a local fair. Yet there they were, burning their images into my iris. Most of them, Carnies I mean, resembled Homo sapiens. Differences were merely superficial: height, length, stretchiness of skin, power of body, tattoos, number of teeth, size of head, pushiness of attitude. No matter how many times the literally toothless and zero-ambition late-twenties male told me how important the over-sized stuffed monkey with a ukulele was, I wouldn't bite. Not because after all his colorful adjectives and adverbs the monkey remained completely pointless to myself or any of my children, but because I still recognized his bottle and ring game as rigged. Rigged like any other. Rigged like any play with the Dark Passenger. Nothing was winnable, though they marketed to the contrary. Everyone, in essence, was strapped to a table. Depending on the circumstance, one might bleed red or green. Judging by the price of a turkey's leg, I wasn't about to suffer either.

The various games and attractions passed. Deborah voiced her opinions aloud as surely as I made them in my head. The wheels of Harrison's stroller rolled forward, bridging every small gap and crushing every feeble pistachio shell under his weight. I was made drunk by the screams of the children and adults in the Gravitron 2000. A contraption that spins so rapidly, you're literally plastered to the wall. A centrifuge of DNA encased individually within its hosts. Other screams came from those on the pirate ship who thought itself a mighty pendulum. Back and forth, it swung. Each poor soul, elbows locked, praying not to fall. The screams of life were starting to become common place. And oh, if I could have only indulged that happy thought a moment longer. A familiar scream echoed into my ears and nestled perfectly into the well worn grooves of the anvils. A sense of belonging. Normally, a welcomed thought, but considering the situation, nothing could be more unwelcome.

"You!" A woman cried from behind, "hey you! Stop!." I turned around. Before the woman had a moment to explain herself, I immediately ascertained Cody's disappearance at Deborah's side. He was, in fact, held taut at the arm by this strange, erratic woman. Harry's Code explicitly stands in opposition of any emotional outrage. It typifies an overall sensible ethic. Basically, it demanded my best behavior. And so, I did my best to make Harry proud.

"Is this your son?" The woman was out of breath. Everything else about her seemed perfectly sound: Perfect blouse. Perfect make-up. Perfect shoes. Perfect Crucifix necklace - ah! Prepare for anything, Dexter.

"It's my nephew. Take your fucking hands off him." Deborah broke through with the power of a five-star general. The strange woman released his arm. A ruddy imprint of her claw was left, dissipating with the recirculation. "What the fuck is your problem?" Deborah wasn't done.

"My problem?" The woman began, "you're lucky I haven't called the police." By now, a small crowd was building. This was becoming a lime light. This was becoming a scene. Something myself and the Dark Passenger avoided by trade. But now, I found myself defending someone else. At least in spirit.

Deborah pushed on, "if you have a fucking point to make, then make it. The kid's only eleven for fuck's sake," I gave her cursing a pass for the time being, "so before I pull out my badge and my gun, you're going to tell me in as few words as possible, why the fuck you were grabbing my nephew!" The small crowd grew.

"It's no wonder." The woman wasn't backing down to Deborah's tactless advances. This meant one of two things: one, she was used to abuse. Judging by her well-kept looks, this wasn't the case. Two, she was protecting something. The evidence wasn't readily accessible, but after a few moments of scanning the surroundings, I spied a young boy crying by an older man. A father and son. This was his mother. As the pieces fell, I realized Cody was somehow involved. "You let your own children run amok, with no regard for other people. Do you have any idea - any idea what your nephew did to my son?"

"First of all, fuck you for approaching my family like this! Second, that's my nephew," she pointed to me, "his son!" Her eyes lingered on mine long enough to insinuate something. Perhaps a call to arms. I was fine being the observer. "Before you start throwing accusations around, I suggest you calm your shit down before I slap you around like a little bitch."

I thought maybe now would be a prompt time to step in, "Debs."

Annoyed, "Dexter?" My bad.

The woman interjected, "did you know your nephew - his son - enjoys killing animals?" Cody ran to me, seeking asylum behind my legs.

"You fucking serious?" Deborah barely kept herself from laughing.

"I'm fucking serious." The woman replied. My sister is well known for her mouth and the obscenities it produces for almost no reason at all. And as much as I'm numb to her onslaught, the exact same sentence from a woman with utter conviction struck me cold. I felt something, though I'm not exactly sure what. However, unlike my sister, this coldness was directed at my family, Cody to be specific. "My son was playing by the tree while my husband and I were getting something to eat. It was barely two minutes," she called back to her husband for confirmation; he confirmed, "we come back and my son is crying. The only thing different was your nephew standing near him with a metal rod in his hand soaked in blood."

"Wait," Deborah began, "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"He was holding a rod covered in blood."

Deborah quickly inspected Cody's hands. Nothing.

"What rod? What fucking rod? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"My son was watching the birds' nest up in the tree. Later, I find out he was throwing pebbles at it, and believe me, I scolded him for it, but that was all. Then all of a sudden, for whatever reason, your nephew came over and joined in. Both of them, throwing rocks at helpless birds."

"Is that what this is about? Fucking birds?" Deborah couldn't care less.

The woman barreled clean through my sister's disrespect, "my son was done. But not him." She pointed at Cody, "he kept finding larger rocks to throw. Eventually, the nest fell to the ground. The impact killed two of the four baby birds." Suddenly, I found myself understanding the circumstances more gravely than either woman involved. "My son says your nephew walked up to both chicks with a metal rod in his hand and pushed it into their bodies. My son saw this!"

"Did you see the rod? Did you actually see my nephew do this? Were you physically fucking there?" My sister, the detective.

"Did I have to? Look at my son!" Here, she finally makes her son apparent to the rest of the world. A small victory for Dexter the Diligent.

"You're going to accuse my nephew of killing two birds, traumatizing your son, and you have no fucking evidence to back it up? Why don't you go back to your husband, buy yourself a stick of fried butter, shove it up your ass, and leave us the fuck alone. We'll deal with our boy on our own."

The woman stood appalled. Angry. Her breathing, deep and restless. But somewhere she found the strength to overcome her anger, "I'll pray for you and your nephew. May God have mercy on you both." She stormed off in all her pious zealotry. To be honest, I've never cared for the so-called virtues of religion. Maybe they have a place in the lives of others, but certainly not in mine. Then again, I've never been confronted by it. I wonder what might happen.

Deborah looked to me, "are you fucking serious?"

Cody was still hiding behind me. Astor looked on from the sidelines, still silent. Harrison, surprisingly, was asleep.

"What did I do?"

"Nothing." Her tone was controlled, yet stern, "not a fucking thing. That's your son. He was being attacked, and you couldn't say one fucking thing to defend him? What is wrong with you, Dexter? Rita wasn't enough?"

Somewhere deep inside, I felt I should have been offended. And somewhere deeper inside, knowing this alone was proof of a glimmer of humanity. Acting on it was still another story.

Fortunately, Deborah had a heart, "I'm sorry. That was out of line." Remorse. I can understand the blueprints, but not the geometry - the science behind it. "But still, Dex. You should have fucking said something."

I should have fucking said something. Said what? What could I have added? The entirety I gleaned was submerged by the Blood Moon's ambition. Whether or not Cody was following in Deeply Disturbed Dexter's footsteps, or simply being a curious - though admittedly violent - young boy, what progress would my voice have made? I thought a moment to convey this clear and articulate rationale to my sister, but a subconscious sprite held the words back. For whatever reason, I felt I was better off.

"Whatever." Much as my sister tried to clear the webs in her mind, she couldn't shake the spiders that spun them, "was bullshit, anyway. That woman was full of shit. Right, Dex? Cody?" Deborah approached my son, bending to one knee, "I'm sorry about what I've said, you won't repeat any of it, right?" Cody shook his head, "good. You heard what that mean, ugly woman said, right? About the bird?" Nods. "You didn't have anything to do with that, right?" In raw Deborah form, she lead her so-called witness toward an innocence her conscience reserved only for those closest to her. Deeper inside, she knew better, but Cody is only a child, after all. He couldn't know any better.

"No." A shy response. Veiled in the embarrassment of the moment. Cody stood still behind my leg.

"That's what I thought." Deborah rose to her feet, "Dex," the question returned, "what the fuck are we doing here?" She grabbed the reigns of the stroller and began walking with one-hundred percent faith in my immediate pursuit, "it's only two in the after-fucking-noon and we still haven't gone by the petting zoo. We were supposed to be there before lunch, which we still haven't..." Deborah's voice fell out of earshot, therefore obliging me to disappoint her in observation of my son who had grabbed the slacks of my jeans and began to pull vigorously toward the Earth. I looked down at Cody; my innocent Cody. He looked back up at me, glazed and remorseful.

My stomach turned.

Remorse? This was remorse? The very same expression I'd seen in the eyes of my countless victims was suddenly reanimated and magnified one hundred times in the eyes of my son. This expression was typically only followed by the vacant stare of a breathless host. I would see no result encumber my little Cody. I may not see him toward a virtuous mindset, but I would see him far from harm. In fact, in just the briefest of glimpses, he told me more than I could hope for, and like a faithful cabby, I knew just where to drop him off - if the fare wasn't more than he could bare.

As I expected, the outlines of his lips began to move. His tongue followed suit, air was pushed through his esophagus, and words were formed. Indeed, some of the most powerful words I'd ever heard, "I did it, Dexter." A tiny voice. Such a tiny, little voice. A confession with no judgement. Granted, a bird with all its feathers didn't weigh similar to a human in the grand scheme of things, but I saw guilt in a different light. I saw, through Cody, forgiveness in me. From his own pant legs, concealed within his socks, he brandished a bloody rod, one regularly used to erect meekly stemmed plants in the soil. The story was true, and my deepest fears came to light; Cody has a Dark Passenger. "I'm sorry." He sprang forward and hugged me taut. Were he only a little stronger, the emotion of his hug would snap my spine in two. Alas, he was meager. Hopeless. Helpless. Weighed down by a heavy secret. A secret I now shared. A type of knowledge I'm only too adept to harvest. If I was to protect my son going forward, it had to begin with coping.

"Dex!" I looked toward Deborah, now quite a bit ahead from earlier. I assumed she'd called to me several times already, so I responded in kind. It was then that my phone began to ring. Oh, did it ring, and ring it did. This was my day off. I was hardly in the mood. But I could ignore it for only so long. We were mere steps from the petting zoo when I gave in and answered the incessant vibrations of the silent-set phone in my pocket, "Dexter Morgan."

The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to that of Angel Batista. If the first several words didn't involve liquor, this would undoubtedly be work related. Sadly, I heard no mention of Mr. Ceurvo, Mr. Beam, or Captain Morgan (I smirked openly.) The voice on the other end of the phone practically demanded I hand my cell phone to my sister, "Deb." I gestured the phone to her in kind, "it's Angel."

Upon retrieving my phone and placing it to her ear, "the fuck you want?" I kept my eyes on her expressions while tending to Harrison's every infantile need. "Fuck me. Are you sure?" Deborah's eyes fell on mine. Something about this revelation surely involved me, and my sister knew it. My day with my children was slowly fading away. "Yeah. No, we'll be there within the hour." She was irked, "within the fucking hour. Jesus, give us a break, I'm with the fucking kids." Deborah hung up the phone. "Dex." she started. I was ready for so much more.

"Deb?"

"I'm sorry. There's another body. We gotta go." Her gestures involved the children, inciting within me some wisdom that she was sensitive to their needs. While this is mostly true, my sister lives and breathes the police force, and the news she just received was far too juicy to ignore.

Knowing this, I coaxed her further, "and?"

"I know this is family time, but Dex," she took a small breath "it's him. It has to be." She could only be referring to the Gravedigger. Up until now, this news never evoked such a response from my sister's eyes. She followed through like clockwork, ensuring the children were healthily preoccupied, "it's another tableau." A 'tableau.' Why did the word feel so tired and cliche? "The body was found at the base of a palm tree near the river at Flagler in East Havana, strangled. A piece of the victim's flesh was cut from the body. Sound familiar?" George Washington King; the Skinner's M.O. I wasn't surprised. In fact, any competent detective could see that the Gravedigger, after having first copied The Ice Truck Killer and the Bay Harbor Butcher, might then continue with other notable local serial killers such as the Skinner and, perhaps, eventually Trinity. But my sister is nothing if not competent. Her eyes were fixed on something more dramatic. "Dex," she began, "the vic was Amelia Gomez." This - and I admit this timidly - I was not expecting.

Amelia Gomez, young victim of a recent violent bludgeoning involving the theoretical involvement of Mr. Flannel's best friend and his now infamous phantom/overlapping blood spatter. Since this was yet another simple case of a dead body unearthed, the Miami homicide department was hardly involved. However, because Amelia's case remained open, we had no choice in the matter. Suddenly, I began thinking of every facet of Amelia's case I'd become intimate with: the blood spatter, baseball bat, the cadaver, the footprints I planted, the apple I was eating...Quinn. Why did the Gravedigger have to touch this one?

The drive home was a silent one - silent by my own re-imagination. I'm sure my sister had her own rants and soliloquies polluting the cabin, but I was hardly present. Just me and the road. The road salt grinding beneath the rubber. The steering wheel was important too, I suppose. Whatever the case, and however much I enjoyed my time with my children, I had to say goodbye. I. Had. To.

We arrived home infinitely sooner than it had taken us to reach the Calle Ocho Fair. Such is life. The engine slowed to a silent purr, then quit. Everyone disembarked the van. Coolers were unloaded. Smiles were fading. Astor's emotions wavered little. My sister waited in the van as I sent my final farewells with Gail's hideous face the last imprint on my iris before the door closed. I surveyed the front lawn, as I do of any environment, with the quick turn of my head back toward my vehicle. Everything seemed well.

Normal.

Standard.

Ordinary.

Typical.

Boring as usual. All except a small mound of fresh dirt pushed up at the edge of the lawn near the perimeter hedges. I had made a mental note earlier, when picking up my children, there once lay a plastic bucket and shovel. These hitherto extraneous anomalies, with their absence, were only the more glaring. I can only assume my journey toward the threshold of the hedge was nothing but unusual and completely unnecessary to my onlooking, and predictably impatient sister. But I had to. I was compelled to the mound. There was no rationality. No rhyme or reason, to be as cliche as possible. Something harkened back to my volatile beginnings. Something dark and ominous prodded my momentum. Then again, Cody's actions bore no rational explanation. If only there were some impetus; some evidence of prior violence. This fresh mound, for whatever reason - like the tickle of a feather - incited my curiosity. Honestly, I hoped not to rediscover myself.

I knelt down at the mound and pulled a few handfuls of Earth at a time, slowly uncovering my son's secret. It didn't take long before the body of yet another bird fronted me. This one's neck was snapped morbidly. His wings gone, replaced by those of another species. The legs were removed and re-impaled within its sternum. It bore a reptilian tale and would stand on the singular foot of a single cat's bloodied paw. What an interesting play thing. What creativity. If only the religious woman could see what my son was truly capable of, the simple plunge of a metal rod into the body of another living organism would be just another sip of her morning coffee.

I felt it my duty to cover up the evidence and return to my sister. After all, we had work to do. Still, as the van barreled down the highway, and my sister no doubt tried to talk my ear off, my attention remained elsewhere. It remained on the bird. Not one. Not the two recently departed. The _bird_.

The bird is a clever beast, but an altogether different kind of beast; ascended from dinosaurs, survived by its primal reptilian nature, and distinguished by the uniqueness of flight. Unique only in its freedom. I envy the monstrosity only in its blatant dichotomy - its blissful disdain for nuance. Though it may soar heavenly above the concerns of humans without worry, it retains deep within the recesses of its ancestry, a code (not unlike Harry's) that speaks to its subconscious, wills it to be mindful. It's an organism of self-preservation as much as it is an organism of survival. It retains the latter characteristic from its reptilian ancestry. The reptile is a fundamentally basic creature. In point of fact, where evolution is considered, the reptilian brain remains near the mammillary body. Extant, without becoming obsolete, in every human brain. It remains as the source of our innate ego. Our selfish desires. Our rapture and our resolve. It's what reminds us that we are, indeed, animals. For all intents and purposes, it's the most scientific word for my Dark Passenger. And those that have transcended - floated on weightless appendages - know the world as a completely different enigma. Through evolution, the reptiles evolved fur and eventually feathers. Some limbs trans-mutated. They grew feathers.

But what is a feather? Like a scream, what are its constituent parts? The quill, or calamus, descends to the individual barbs from the rachis. Barbs and hooklets mingle and interlock to develop and demand strength necessary for lift. Light. Aerodynamic. Elegant. The beast whose scales evolved into flight are, in this monster's form, a vestige apparent only in its legs. The feathers of this beast inhibit gravity, defy human parameters and demand the attention of its observers. And so, aloft, these beasts soar. We've studied them. We've observed with magnified bi-lenses and recorded with pencils their nature - their habits; mating or otherwise. From below, in absolute plain view, we've watched the heavens for their majesty. But hidden deep in their ancestry, and coincidently mine (and now Cody's), is the reptile peering back at his observers;

Smirking.

Snickering.

Squawking.

Cackling.

Recording in kind. Ever diligent. Ever mindful. The bird is a clever beast.

"Hey!" Deborah's hand slapped me across the shoulder, "so?"

I had no reasonable response. I'd been day dreaming. I came up with the only rational response I could, "so what?" Nice.

"Don't be an idiot right now, Dex. What do you think? Is this the Gravedigger? Your flannel guy's best friend, or whatever?" Apparently my sister had been entertaining her own theory and constructing her own conclusions the whole time I'd been lost in thought. I'd do well in the future to be mindful of my sister's ramblings. If without the proper amount of shadow, her seeds might sprout in the infinite sunlight of her ego.

How I envy the reptile within her.


	19. Chapter 19

Palm trees.

They literally litter damn near every parallel to Miami's roads. The same holds true for its beaches and embankments. For most, the palm tree is a symbol of the tropics; glistening and undulating diamonds floating atop a sky blue ocean blanket, the majestic wild life that constitute its further more unsuspecting under belly, and the grainy sand bed which said blanket kisses with varying frequency. The picture broadens when half naked men and women populate the grains with their cheap, foldable chairs and their convenient cup holders, and their sporty affairs. Suntan lotion protects their skin from the ravenous sun and its carcinogenic implications, and an additional umbrella is employed as a proverbial extension of their index finger to the solar entity. My dark passenger isn't far removed from this _sentiment_. Palm trees are seen as a beacon of summer: family, fun, friendship, fucking, and all around good times. I, myself, have never drawn any of these connections, but have since become familiar with the concept. And I can't be the only one who doesn't immediately conjure up images of Fiji or Hawai'i any time i see a thin stem burst at the last moment into broad foliage like a doomed fire cracker. In fact, I'm willing to bet there is at least one other man who views the palm tree just a little differently. I'm also willing to put my life on the line that this same man is allegedly responsible for the murder of Assistant District Attorney Miguel Luis Prado. I might also raise the guarantee that his name is Jorge Orozco, or George Washington King; Miami's Skinner. These may seem like a lot of heavy allegations, but I have it on good authority that my assumptions are in fact, fact-based. It tickles me to think that the same image, whether it be a dolphin or a palm tree, can illicit a positive and calm emotion from one individual (and let's be honest, individuals the world over,) yet harbor a morbid and disturbing call to murder for another. Then again, I suppose a loving father of three who moonlights as a serial killer is also just as diametrically opposing. Dexter the Digressing.

"Do we have to go so fast? The body isn't gonna die any slower." Not five minutes into the car ride after dropping off the kids from Gail's house, I was already fearing for my life. Justifiably so, my sister had deliberate intentions, and she was in the driver's seat.

After a few quick swerves and turns through traffic, my question landed firmly on Deborah's consciousness. A response was soon to follow, "huh? Dex, shut up. I'm trying to drive."

"I'm trying to live."

"Dex." Swerve. "Shit. Fuck, Dex. You know how much this case means to me. Not even the LT wants to acknowledge something's fucked up. And LaGuerta has just as much cause to warrant an investigation as I do. You saw how she acted when the Bay Harbor Butcher was copied. Doakes this, Doakes that. Fucking carries that son of a-" Swerve, tires squeal, "bitch on her shoulders like he's some sort of god or something. She's not seeing shit straight, Dex. I can feel this one. Trust me. I really need you on my side for this."

I wanted to argue with her, but it seemed nothing I could think of, much less anything I'd done to distract her, was going to pull the Gravedigger's scent from her Bloodhound muzzle. If I was going to conduct my own investigation, I'd be smarter to do it without the family company. At the moment, however, I couldn't think of a single thing. I was, for all intents and purposes, a twig on the shoulder of a mighty stream.

"Well?!" Oh. Right...

"I am on your side, Deb. Always have been." Sounded sincere. I used to say the same kind of things to Rita. Funny. Whatever feeling there was felt similar, too. "I'm just worried you're chasing something that isn't yours to chase. There's been no evidence that your Gravedigger has killed anyone. And as much as you don't -"

"Yada, yada, fucking yada." She cut me off, "we're homicide, I know. But I'm telling you, bro. This shit isn't right. If he hasn't killed already, he's fucking telling us he's working up to it. You can see that, can't you?" I could. Much as I wanted to scream to her and parade her around for her exacting insight into the mind of a monster, Deborah's the detective. Not me.

"I suppose so."

With a smile, "you suppose so? Fuck you, Dex. You've been right about everything every time. Tell me what you really think." Another car was only barely spared.

"I think we were right. He's finding his identity. But I also think he's trying to show us how good he is." Here, I almost began to talk up the other serial murders and their pristine capabilities. In a way, putting my admiration on display. None of which, mind you, held a candle to the Butcher's technique. "He's boasting."

"Well, shit." Deborah started, "pride cometh before the fucking fall."

Pride? Was I prideful? I've stabbed a person in the heart at whim with a chef's knife and collected his blood, then shared Beef Wellington and beer with my Rita mere hours later. I've separated sinew from screaming bone then on the same tank of gas, took Cody to his baseball tryouts and cheered him on with all the accomplishment of a delighted father. Sure, I may not have created an online blog to laud my unique achievements, nor do I even walk with a greater posture, but my actions reek of pride. They're infected by my ego. Symptomatic. So much so that I can no longer discern the difference between confidence and carelessness. Indeed, the prospect begs a serious and sobering realization; if I'm prideful, how soon before Dexter's fall?

Our car eventually screeched to a halt at the threshold of one of Miami's many river ports. Just north of Flagler in East Havana, along the South West South River Drive, and just west of downtown Miami, something terrible awaited us. Though other members of Miami Metro had already stuck their greedy little fingers into the pie, I still couldn't help but feel like the first one to the party. After all, none of the paper pushers had the slightest inkling what to look for.

Deborah was the first to disembark the car. Her gait only seemed to pick up speed toward where Angel and Masuka were working. I enjoyed the panorama a moment longer through the windshield before finding my own footing toward the entourage of mindless public safety professionals. As I closed in on them, I could discern the motionless body of one, Amelia Gomez. Not soon after, I fell within ear shot of my cohorts' opinions.

"...but the reports concluded that miss Gomez wasn't inviting anyone else..." Angel stopped for a moment, "hey, Dex," he continued, "...anyone else to her house the night she was murdered. This was closed, confirmed, boyfriend-dun-it scenario. So you tell me, why the fuck are we looking at her dead body again?"

"Fuck if I know?" My sister responded, "it's not like we confirmed her death that long ago."

Angel responded in a way that seemed to confirm his own lingering suspicions, "so whoever did this knew she was dead."

"Had to."

As the two continued to conjure conjecture, Masuka approached me, "deja vu, huh, Dex? Probably not for her, though, huh? She's been dead the whole time. Everything must be deja vu for her." He chortled. I've missed you, Masuka. "Wanna see something cool?" Something cool. God, did I ever. I stepped over the cold body, close to where Masuka now knelt, his latex-encased hand lifting layers of Amelia's hair from the right side of her neck, "check out this shit." I leaned over, trying to make a more complete observation of Masuka's recent hard-on, "isn't it sexy?" My nostril's immediately flared. A familiar, musky egg-rotten scent. What I was looking at was a missing patch of skin. Like the Skinner, a trophy was taken. Only this time around, I felt the skin was most likely discarded and forgotten. But that wasn't the point, as Masuka expected me to surmise. No. The patch of skin was removed flawlessly. No blood flowed from our victim. Consider for the moment that a live human being pumps blood on a continuous basis. This is nothing new so long as the heart beats. Postmortem, however, blood falls victim to gravity and any gaping lesion would spill its loose contents to the floor without hesitation. The picture Masuka wanted me to see was that of a fresh victim from Abraham Stoker's Dracula; a vessel emptied of blood. The patch of skin must have been relieved of its host after being drained. This raised an immediate counter question; drained from where? Upon extensive inspection, I supposed I might find my answer. I didn't. Nothing about this enigma readily spoke to me. It seemed to me, at this point, that this Gravedigger was growing claws, as well as savvy.

Amelia Gomez was a novel of few chapters. Vague beginnings, wrought of simple upbringings, and punctuated by a single moment. Nowhere in the story of Amelia, however, laid bare the evidence of her fleeting blood. Not her throat, her skull, her wrist, her inner thighs, or her ankles. She was literally bereft of life, even after life, without even the scar tissue to bare witness. Amelia Gomez was simply dead as a cause of one, and emptied as a cause of another. No connection. No rationality. If this was, indeed, a conversation with Miami's most notable serial killers, I wasn't laughing at the punch line, much less the set-up.

But Amelia's reemergence did spark a few novelties in the fathers of her death's inquiry. Her closed investigation was a result of one man's rage channeled through a simple baseball bat. She now existed as a vestige of Miami Metro's many possible finger-slips: just enough evidence to convict, and now, just enough evidence to spurn. Amelia lay ambiguous, vague, yet equally lifeless and pale. I could only hear the inert splashing of nearby tides and the churls created by local bridge spires as I watched her hair fall from Masuka's latex fingers.

"What do you think, Dex?" Obviously the question was designed based on the foresight I would have already discerned the situation. Masuka was accurate in his assumptions, as always. Now, what did I think about it?

"We have a bleeder." Maskua smiled. "Or do we?" Why bother sending another brilliant mind for a loop? He's every bit as capable as I am. "Somewhere. Somehow. Six quarts of blood was drained." I knew I was on to a start long after the starter's pistol fired. But there's nothing wrong with going through the motions. "No recent discernible lacerations on the extremities. Antemortem bruising is consistent with typical cadaver transportation. Wait..." And like that, the race was tied.

"That's how I felt too," his creepy laughter ensued, "It's like a mind-fuck, isn't it? Like, literally fucking your mind in a 'love-you-tender' kind of way. A brain climax. A cerebrogasm. A medulla oblon-gotta-cum."

Much as it pained me, I had to stop his creative genius, "Vince." His smile only grew wider. The two of us arose from the body in mutual bravado. And when the parents egress from their duties, the hankering children have their questions.

Angel approached me with Deborah in tow. I had a funny, subconscious itch, where was Quinn? "Masuka wouldn't fill us in until you got here. So. What's up, Dexter?"

What's up? We have a mortician on the loose, and his name is The Gravedigger, "well, it's the Skinner's MO for sure."

"You recognize the body?"

"Amelia Gomez. I did her blood work, Sergeant. That's pretty personal for a lab geek." I took one more breath before continuing, choosing my words carefully, "obviously, she was drained of blood. Something we're well aware is within Deborah's killer's wheelhouse-"

Angel cut in, "allegedly, Dexter. Continue."

Allegedly. Just as I'd hoped. By pushing the same mindset as my sister's, I had an opportunity to reinforce the disbelief in others. The Gravedigger had left no mark, and no trail of blood. Literally. We were only on this side of town because it was a recent homicide. "But the body showed no evidence of lacerations, or cuts; shallow or deep. The only cut we could find was the patch of skin missing at the right side of the neck. A five-by-five inch square removed with exquisite patience and precision."

"Try not to salivate, Dex." Thanks, Deb.

"I don't think a man's skill with a blade should be so readily ignored, or rather, pushed aside for other details. It tells its own story."

"So you think this is a man?" Angel was truly interested.

"I hadn't considered the alternative," Masuka thought out loud from behind me. His trademark smile grew across his face as he walked away, presumably for privacy.

Trivial matters, all of this, but I still had to put in the work, "male, female, I don't see how it could matter. The skill is all that's important."

"So..."

"So," I continued, "when searching a body for epidermal lacerations, it's important to be thorough. No square-inch unseen."

"But Dex..."

It wasn't a stretch to imagine where this line of questioning might be headed, so before Angel could interrupt me further, I simply extrapolated and drew my conclusion as tactfully as I could, "fine, no five-square-inch unseen." Angel shut up promptly. "You see, lacerations to the meat of the body; the muscle, tissue fibers, tendons, ligaments are more difficult to observe, especially when using surgical tools. It's also more complicated when you're expecting them to be there. I don't suppose you bothered to smell the body? The open patch?" I garnered no supporters, "formaldehyde. It has a musky, rotten-egg odor. A very distinct smell bio-majors tend not to forget." Still nothing, "she was embalmed. Her body was already drained. You couldn't see the laceration because, and as I stated before, five square inches of evidence are missing."

It only took leading a horse to water, but I was at least thankful the bitch was thirsty, "so you're saying he's fucking with us?" Angel's tact can be as absent as my sister's.

"In a way, yes."

"Your Gravedigger not only knows how to cut up a victim, but he knows where they'll be buried. It can't be a stretch to assume he knows also where the bodies will be handled. Dexter, you mentioned formaldehyde. Every dead body gets this shit?"

An obvious question, "any body that goes through a morgue."

"Then that's where we start." Angel turned to me, "Dexter, I need you to run a list on the number of morgues in the Miami metropolitan area. Specifically the ones who've dealt with each victim your Gravedigger's dug up."

I tried to interject, "Sergeant."

"I realize this isn't a murder. There's no blood, there's no actual crime, but this has been getting a shit-load of air time, and the city would be very grateful to see an end to this, I'm sure. Run a trace on Amelia's coroner's report. See where the body's travelled. It's route, stops, shit like that. Find out if this _pendejo_ ain't some chicken-shit mortician with a God complex."

I didn't want to disrespect a superior, but I also didn't want to step outside my boundaries. Investigation is not a faculty of Dexter Morgan the Transparent. Those skills, I reserve for my darker adventures, "with all due respect, Sergeant, that sounds like something Quinn should be checking up on." Kill two birds with one stone? Why not. I've enjoyed killing birds.

"No such luck, Dex. Quinn took a sick day."

"Sergeant," my sister's been unusually quiet as of late, "if you don't mind, I'd like to revisit Amelia's house."

"What for? We've combed the place. It's clean."

"I don't know. I just feel like we're missing something."

Angel was persistent, "you're still on that second killer nonsense?"

"Look. All I'm saying is Quinn's on holiday and you got Dexter checking the morgues. No one's been killed that wasn't already dead. Give me this, please. And you know I don't say please for just any shit." How could Angel deny my beautiful sister the freedom to explore what was essentially empty space to the rest of Miami Metro. Indeed, the home had been combed over. Not just by Miami Metro proper, but by yours truly and his dutiful sister. As the conversation ended, and Angel left to attend other matters, Deborah walked up to me. The content of this discussion had already been summed up in the mind of Dexter the Destined, it had only to play out.

"No offense, Dex."

"None taken." So far so good.

"It's just - I know you've had a lot on your mind recently. And it was really good to see you with your kids earlier. But when it comes to being on point, focused. Dex, you lost Cody. Honestly, I don't think you're all there." Yes? "And as much as I appreciated you helping me the other day, and I do! I can't help but feel like you missed something at Amelia's house."

Considering her apologies, I was now expected to be insulted to some degree, "you don't think I can do my job?"

"It's not that at all," just give me the award, "fuck, Dex. You're the smartest person I know. And you know I know that, and you love that you are! That's why I always come to you. But let's be fucking honest, bro. You've been off, and it doesn't take a fucking blind shrink to see it. Jesus, I'm a broken record. I shouldn't have to explain myself again at this point."

Perhaps I have been off. She was right, after all. It was by no design of mine that I lost Cody in the thicket of carnival commerce. And it's no secret that I've been careless in my execution. We have only to remember Peter Olshansky for that lesson. My play time with Quinn didn't help my case, either. Maybe, just maybe all of this could work in my favor somehow. Some way, I can fix it that my foul-ups could explain a future indiscretion. It never hurts to be prepared. Harry's Code demands it.

Flash!

"Ah, shit!" Angel's voiced bellowed through the open air, "get the tape, and hold the parasite back!" He was referring, of course, to the early bird to our worm; the little media implant flashing his camera, jonesing for his next fix. The scent is an alluring one for the media sharks, a pool of blood billowing through the water, yearning to be danced in. Angel was a bit slow on this one, the police tape had not yet been festooned along the perimeter like it should have. But it only takes a sufficient prod at the hornet's nest to get anything done. Still, and I've worked quite a few crime scenes; even created a few, I'd have to say this particular shark was a quick one.

"Jesus Christ. If I was LT, that's the first goddamn thing I would have done." Deborah laughed, "Lieutenant Morgan. Could you buy that?"

"You bossing people around? Barking orders? Telling people what to do?" Here, I was practicing my sarcasm, "not at all."

Deborah bit her bottom lip smiling, and sent a right cross to my shoulder. "Well? Is that okay with you?"

"Huh? Yeah, Deb, sure. Whatever." And with that, I managed to put an old card back into play. My sister left to return to the Gomez house. She'd remember the walls, the blood spatter, the kill spot, and the kill shot, but she wouldn't remember the back yard. This was Dexter's responsibility: forgettable Dexter, unreliable Dexter, highly vexed Dexter, Dexter interrupted. The best kind of Dexter who might miss something as blatant as a set of footprints at the base of the outlining shrubbery. I've been wondering when the fruits of my labor would develop and ripen. I would pick one, snapping it from its branch, grasping tight, and clamping my craving jaw into its flesh...

Crunch!

'You sure about that, Dexter?' Harry stood behind me, holding a quarter-eaten apple in his hand.

"Am I sure about what?"

'Look around you.' And I did. The hornets fluttered in slow motion. I focused on their emotions. The strange alterations of their facial structures as they hurried about in an attempt to cordon off the crime scene. Determination is some. Panic in a few. Work as usual in most. Angel managed the crime scene to the best of his abilities. My sister was deep into her own investigation, with concrete boots on her gas pedal. Masuka seemed content, then again, he was content under any circumstance. All the usual suspects were on parade in my own kind of carnival. All but one.

Another crunch, 'son, you know how important it is; what I'm saying. This is the code. This is all you know, Dexter. Imagine the consequences to you. To your family. Your kids, Dexter.'

Consequences. They are each response to my every action, and they weigh infinitely more than the average person's. Harry involved my kids, which means this particular consequence may displace more caution than I was used to. Like a vessel bouyed by the sea, this Titanic was set to make her maiden voyage, and the sheer amount of displaced water was sure to be noticed by others. In this case, none but one. Specifically one; the one coincidently absent from today's activities. Quinn! My dear friend, you were there to disrupt me as I planted my footprint evidence. Is it possible you know too much? I only realize now I didn't have the chance to inquire fully earlier. Assuming my sister could find the prints, should I be worried? What would you say? Where are you now, Quinn?

The tides of the ocean pushed up and lapped against the river banks. White water splashed against the spires of the bridge. It was enough to make a man thirsty. I observed the river and the debris it carried along. One such debris stuck out to me; a twig - helpless and impotent on the shoulder of a mighty stream.

Crunch!

Apple juices flowed from the corners of Harry's lips. The river spoke to me as it continued to lap along the bank, splash against the spires, and down his chin.


End file.
